


The Stormlight Archive Regency Romance

by babylonsheep



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-25 16:31:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 145,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6202681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babylonsheep/pseuds/babylonsheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” – Jane Austen, 1813.  Adolin Kholin, duke, dandy and darling of the Kholinar ton, has one flaw: his bachelorhood.  To Jasnah Kholin, this is an opportunity to secure an advantageous match for her travelling companion and ward.  For Shallan Davar, there is a price for the wealth and independence necessary to save her family – and the altar of matrimony requires its sacrifice.   </p><p>AU – 1800's England.  Illustrated fic.  [COMPLETED]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> This story originally started on The 17th Shard as an homage to Charlotte Brontë and English authors of the early 19th century. I developed more backstory, and more, until it became slightly more than a playful romp about country gentry. Shallan's Sketchbook pages eventually came out of it, which you will see starting from Chapter 3.

 “That ship, you may have noticed, had two very fine cabins that I hired out for us at no small expense,” said Countess Jasnah, with a sigh of dignified resignation.  “It is rather a shame that I cannot say likewise for the quality of these ... lodgings.  And it seems my dearest cousin shan't be gracing us with his presence – he has engaged a proxy to escort us to the Court.”

 Shallan hadn't thought the journey tedious – not at all:  it was one thousand nautical miles from Kharbranth to the great port of Varikev in Roionshire, most of it spent splendidly barefoot and scandalously clad only in her chemise and petticoats.  The days on the road since had been less pleasant, of course: fifty miles a day by carriage, a night spent in a common coaching house, fifty miles the next.  It was only a wonder that the constant rhythmic rattle and clop of the horses hadn't been drummed permanently into her head.

 But now they had arrived at the very last coaching house, curiously named “The Black Thorn Inn”.  The idea of her marrying still seemed strange to Shallan, though it hadn't necessarily been one she was dreading.  Day by day the journey had shortened ahead of her, and though she was glad of it, she had mused on what few joys she had left.  Kholinar Court, the hereditary seat of the Kholin dukes, was the destination – the terminal, one could say, and Shallan was briefly solemn as she was reminded that it could very well be the place where her body was interred.  It was not her home; it could never be – it was not a place where friends awaited her arrival with fond welcome.

 Shallan and Countess Jasnah stood under the shaded eaves of the inn, porters scurrying around them to pile up their numerous steamer trunks, travel valises and awkwardly shaped hatboxes.  As they watched, a cloud of dust slowly drifted over the horizon to soften the sharp blue of the sky with a fringe of golden mist.  A line of carts – that was it – clattering down the road, gaily painted in Kholin blue, preceded by a carriage with the Duke's arms in white upon the doors. 

 “Hallo!” cried the man sitting on the high driver's seat next to the coachman.  He was a lanky man whose long legs bumped up against the coachman's on the narrow shelf of a seat.  With unexpected grace, he swung himself to the ground, and Shallan noticed that his shoulder-length hair had not been tied into a tail as current fashion dictated.   He had on a plain gentleman's suit – no sign of ducal livery – the wool worn shiny on knees and elbows. “There you are.  We must make haste—”

 “If it pleases you ...  _sir,”_ said Countess Jasnah, rather coldly.  “Might I have the pleasure of an introduction?  Cousin Adolin promised a trusted proxy to receive us, but I am afraid I do not recognise you.”

 She did not hold out her hand for a kiss.  He did not bow.

 “Doctor Kaladin,” said he, pulling a leather wallet from the inside of his coat.  “The Duke's personal physician.  My letter of introduction, addendum by the Prince Dalinar and reference from the Duke's brother the Marquess of Kholinshire.”

 He held it out to Countess Jasnah, who stared at it for a second, then took it stiffly.

 “You must be the girl, then.  A Scot,” Doctor Kaladin said, as he turned to Shallan, looking her up and down, then added, “though I can hardly imagine that you could be any more of a nuisance than the Duke's, ah, previous matches.”

 Shallan felt unpleasant emotions rise up in her throat; she was scarcely aware of what exactly they were, though she was certain they were neither becoming nor ladylike.  She did know, however, that impertinence answered by impudence was fair and just, and that Jasnah was out of earshot directing the porters to load the carts with their luggage. 

 If this stranger, this Doctor Kaladin, had been properly courteous – or even good-humoured in the least, in his manner – Shallan would have felt no inclination to respond with insolence.  But he had not the air of an elegant gentleman; that surely would have made her shy instinctively toward girlish hesitance.  Doctor Kaladin had instead a dark face with heavy brow furrowed in irritation; though he was young – not much older than she, on inspection – his face had none of the softness or gentleness of youth; his lips were set into a stern line.  This Kaladin creature spoke with the cultured tones of gentle breeding; despite this, he seemed set on being disagreeable from the start: Shallan had always thought herself sympathetic with those of lesser station, but here, she could feel nothing but antipathy.

 “Aye, ye be addressing the Lady Shallan,” said Shallan, exaggerating her rural accent to one fitting of the servants back home.  Her former governess, Madame Tyn, made a study of regional accents and dialects, and had taught her on the condition to never speak like that in front of distinguished company.  That would hardly apply to Kaladin.  “Pledged clanswoman and shieldbearer to The McValam.”

 “You don't sound like a lady,” remarked Kaladin bluntly.

 She gave him shallow curtsey, no more than a mere dip of the knees, and with a curt toss of her head, circled around him.

 “Ye dinna look like any doctor I ken,” Shallan said.  “A real surgeon would ha' better hair than yers, I reckon.  Do ye keep it for emergency bandages?”

 Kaladin sputtered.  “Emergency bandages—”

 “Too stringy fer tha', maybe.  Emergency sutures, more like.”

 Kaladin's brows gathered together, and his mouth twisted down with ire.  “You do not seem like any lady, would I not be mistaken if I judge you an opportunistic impostor who has managed to deceive herself into Lady Jasnah's good graces?  And I, Miss, am no leech-peddling barber surgeon.”

 “E'en tha' job's got folks looking forward to yer comin', aye,” said Shallan, "I'd think ye'd be better suited fer bailiff ... or hangman.  Ye would'na need a rope when yer breath would work faster.”

 Kaladin's face reddened pleasantly, or so Shallan thought, and his body stiffened.  He took a breath, then stepped closer to her, hands clenched in tense fists by his side.  “Look, _you_ —” he began.

 “Lady Shallan, the carriage awaits,” called Countess Jasnah.  The last trunk had been loaded onto the last cart; the first had already departed and was now a merry puff of golden dust on the road ahead.  “Doctor, your credentials are in order.  My uncle the Prince recommends you warmly, I am most astonished to see.”

 “Yes,” Kaladin said, and after a pause, “thank you.” He turned finally away from Shallan, and took the offered wallet from Jasnah's hands.  He did not offer the wallet to Shallan; instead he tucked it into his coat's inner pocket.

 Lady Jasnah nodded; a footman bowed as he held open the carriage door painted with the tower-and-crown in white with gold details.  The folding steps had already been pulled out.

 “A Kharbranth Academy scholar, I was naturally impressed to see,” said Jasnah, holding her skirts, as she ducked into the soft curtained dimness.  “Will you be joining us for the ride to the house, Doctor?”

 Doctor Kaladin's eyes flicked sideways at Shallan.  He had composed himself by now, and she observed that when he wasn't dis-tempered, he made a well-formed figure of a man – taller than most, with handsome breadth of shoulders, and graceful hands etched here and there with pale white scars over tanned fingers and knuckles.  His face, though it lacked in beauty or elegance, had its own decisive character made more distinguished by darkly perceptive eyes.

 Shallan tore herself away and took the footman's guiding arm into the carriage.  She did not look back.

 “I shall ride with the coachman, if it pleases you, Lady Jasnah,” said Kaladin after a few moments.  “I would not want the road dust from my journey here to soil your clothes nor the upholstery – my Duke had it cleaned for your arrival.  He comes from the City to-night and expects Lady Shallan's informal presentation for this evening after supper.”

 There were a few clinks and creaks as footmen found their places, and the horses shuffled impatiently in their traces, then the carriage started moving.  

 Shallan twitched aside the pale blue lace curtains on the window and watched the warm green countryside trundle by, dotted and dashed with the occasional hayrick or wind-breaking treeline.  She now felt a thrill; elation gently warmed in her chest: the world suddenly seemed to blossom around her when not very long ago she had imagined that it was like a box folding inward and unstoppably inward.  She had dealt with that Doctor Kaladin, unpleasant as he was, with remarkable ease; no doubt this unfamiliar southern land would be filled with many such as he, but she could – yes she would – crest over such trifling difficulties and find herself comfortably settled as a lady Duchess that all of Anglethi society would look to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few hundred years ago, barbers and surgeons were the same thing. Physicians diagnosed illnesses, but it was barber-surgeons who did the actual surgery and amputations. Their razors could cut skin and give a close shave. Shallan is joking Kaladin on his unfashionable and messy hair. A bailiff in medieval times collected taxes as part of their job. I also referenced the scene in the hallway of Elhokar's palace when Shallan meets Kaladin for the second time in Words of Radiance.


	2. II

 The carriage had arrived and the luggage brought up to the House – it would be a disservice to call Kholinar Court, with its long curving drive, cultivated gardens, fancifully mismatched architecture, and parade of servants waiting outside the front door to greet them, a mere house.  It was a House, a Grand House, one of the ten in this country; Shallan hadn't the fortune to see any other for herself, but she could not imagine a House grander; Dun McValam was a quaint folly in comparison. 

 She had, with the help of a housemaid, changed from her hard-wearing travelling clothes in muslin and wool to the best she had for now – a blue silk dress from home she had, on a bit of whimsy, embroidered on the skirt and hem with mathematically inspired designs.  The current Duke and his younger brother were bachelors; the House had not seen a feminine touch since the death of the Duke's mother ten years before: the Prince their father had not seen fit to remarry, and thus the House had gone without lady-in-waiting or lady's maid for a decade now.

 Shallan was used to dressing herself and the housemaid unused to dressing another.  She had crouched down on the floor in front of the mirror to lace herself up as she did at home; she'd found that it was easier to settle the layered underskirts in place whilst lying on her back, but a timid false-cough from the maid had reminded her that she would now have to rely on others – one habit with which she was haltingly unfamiliar. The dress was cut simply and more suitable for a burgher's wife than a noble lady; it was designed so that one could dress and dress alone.  Shallan decided then that she would gleefully welcome the label of “eccentric” if it meant not having strangers' cold fingers wandering over the bare skin of her back.

 

***

 

 Shallan had not attended many formal dinners before, but she could not say that this one had been a success.   The servants had made an effort, yes – that could not be disregarded.  There must have been an intense debate downstairs over how to arrange the seating; everyone who aspired to call themselves well-bred and had read a manual on etiquette knew that in hosting mixed company – which they were, and none of the three of them wed – you alternated gentlemen between the ladies and made up the difference with obligation-invitations when you found your number woefully uneven.  But Countess Jasnah, though the rank of her peerage was the lesser of her cousins, was Family, and with the Duke currently absent, the highest in precedence at the table.  So Jasnah had been seated at the head of the table but not on the Duke's personal chair, with Shallan on her left and Doctor Kaladin at her right.  This made his seat directly opposite Shallan's, and implied that his status was not just of trusted Family or personal retainer, but an associate considered almost socially equal.  How very puzzling.

 She had observed that they seemed to use more elaborate settings than perhaps Doctor Kaladin was used to; they were also, though it wouldn't do to point it out, more elaborate than what she herself was accustomed.  She watched Doctor Kaladin heft the cutlery in his hands as the first course was brought in and served from the left elbow; neither she nor Jasnah addressed the servants but Kaladin murmured his thanks.

 “They're aluminium plated, you know,” said Kaladin. “They're lighter than the silver set and do not polish up to so high a shine.”

 Shallan looked at the fork in her hand.  The handle had been cast with the shape of a shield at the end, with the tower-and-crown embossed in relief. 

 “I know,” she said.  She did not use her exaggerated country milkmaid's accent this time.  “I once had a necklace made of aluminium links.   It was very light for its size.”

 “Had?  What happened to it?”

 “We sold it.  It was quite pretty, but after using this aluminium fork, I am glad we did.  Aluminium appears to have no taste so I cannot regret that we chose food over it.”

 Shallan met his eyes and smiled politely, trying to look as nonchalant about it as she wished she really was.  It seemed to work; Kaladin looked away and stabbed the filet of sole with his aluminium fork.  _Ah,_ she thought, _now I see: when that man is kept off-balance he cannot sustain the ill-humour necessary for his outward unpleasantness._

 Countess Jasnah, noticing a lull, cleared her throat, then engaged him in a conversation over the use of indentured labour that the civilians of the losing side were fated to when they were conquered by the Anglethi.  Jasnah was of the opinion that the vast numbers of the indentured would lead to some sort of a rebellion or uprising in the near future; Doctor Kaladin believed that the labour they provided lessened the burdens on the native Anglethi working class.

 Shallan did not have an opinion.  These indentured “marshpeople” were relatively uncommon in her northern homeland.  Their contracts were bought and sold and her father, Laird Davar, had a few of them:  she could not remember that they had been differently or worse treated than any other menial.  They were not family retainers, of course, nor could they claim the rank of servant, who were obliged the few rights a patron-employer was law-bound to respect.  Their contracts had later been auctioned off with most of the other Davar liquid assets.

 The discussion grew heated, and Shallan did not volunteer a remark, nor were any inquiries on her opinion offered.  Shallan observed that Countess Jasnah and Doctor Kaladin had lapsed with their formal address; from what she had learned of Jasnah over the months they had worked and travelled together, she could see that the Countess was pleased to finally have a conversational partner her equal in intellect.  Jasnah had attempted to debate with Shallan in the past – to while away the days on the _Wind's Pleasure_  – but Shallan was non-confrontational in her temperament; her disinterest in assertive argumentation drove Jasnah to seek stimulus, unsuccessfully, elsewhere.  Though Kaladin's view of the marshpeople was what Jasnah considered banally populist, he was undoubtedly widely-read and well-spoken; that almost excused his disagreeable sympathies with the lower classes. 

 It was with grateful appreciation that Shallan accepted an escort to the retiring room when the last course had been served.  Countess Jasnah and Kaladin had elected to stay at table, and the servants, unwilling to interrupt their debate, had continued pouring drinks and refreshing the platter of cheeses and dried figs.  She was certain they were listening avidly to the debate and the main points would be parroted downstairs later; they would, assuredly, support Doctor Kaladin's sentiments that the foreigner marshpeople working in mines prevented the same fate being forced onto good honest Anglethis.

 The retiring room was decidedly masculine in its furnishings.  Glassy-eyed hunting trophies decorated the wall – buffalo and crocodile and peculiar crab-things were more common than deer.  Even as it lacked the tartan lap rugs or carved bog monsters of home, the wooden panelling and warm yellow lamps reminded Shallan comfortingly of her father’s house, with the added benefit of her father not being there.   

 “Shall I bring you some tea, my lady?” asked the footman who had shown her in.  He was now throwing another log into the fireplace.  “The ladies’ parlour was ordered mothballed after … _ahem_  … and we were never given any orders to the otherwise.  The butler said we daren’t risk it with the Duke away, but we should make you feel comfortable as best we can.  If there’s anything at all, my lady.”

 “Can you bring me the book I left on the nightstand in my room?” said Shallan.  Jasnah had given her a list of readings that she had forced herself to plough through on the journey, and if she had the opportunity now to indulge in some pleasure reading without the Countess impatient at her shoulder, she should not hesitate to take it.

 “Very good, my lady,” came the reply.

 If only all of the Duke’s creatures were as amenable.

 And thus Shallan found herself in a corner of the room, reclining with a book while a pot of tea sat snugly in its cosy on the low table.  It was quite comfortable; solitude without the constant rattle and shake of carriages was a novelty that she was eager to reacquaint herself with – preferably with good company that lacked the ability to speak.  It was to the turning of pages, the warmth and stillness, and the soft, rhythmic ticking of the wall clock that she drowsed and finally lapsed into the contented ease of sleep.

 

***

 

 The door of the retiring room opened, there was the heavy tread of feet, and then the door closed with a snap.

 Shallan awoke.  Her body was held in peaceful paralysis; her mind was soft and dazed with the stupor of nameless interrupted dreams; the book lay with pages down on her chest.  She was on her back on the three-seater sofa and there was someone in the room with her.  No, she thought, as her befuddled mind swum slowly back out of the serene depths and into consciousness – there was more than one person in the room.

 “…You’re late; they’ve all gone to bed by now.  We were expecting you hours ago.”  That was Doctor Kaladin.  No-one else had that – she fumbled for the appropriate description – annoyingly derisive tone in their speech, as if somehow he knew and flaunted the secret that exempted him from the unspoken rules of social conduct that held the rest of the civilised world in their sway.

 “I was delayed, you see,” she heard.  This was an unfamiliar voice that spoke with the refined enunciation of the properly educated.  Although this man’s manner of speech was gentlemanly and his delivery confident, she could hear no sign of Jasnah’s aristocratic imperiousness in it.

 “You should have sent word.”  Very curiously, Kaladin had managed to sound more concerned than irritated.

 “I was on my way here but my royal aunt intercepted me with a summons to view her new Shardcannons,” came the voice again.  “Apparently they're some sort of shrapnel artillery device, very useful for repulsing infantry, with some interesting naval applications as well.  But I had to detour to a rather remote paddock at Kholinshire Park where they had them set up for testing.

 “Would you pour me a drink?  The Tokaj – no, not that one.  The yellow one in the round bottle with the wolf’s head stopper.  Good man; have some yourself.”

 There was a clink of glasses, then a glug as the wine was poured, and a tap as a glass was placed on a table.  There was a step, step, step as Kaladin started pacing near the drinks cabinet and side bar; Shallan could see his feet move back and forth from under the legs of the sofa.  Should she announce her presence?  Was it better to lay quietly and wait for them to leave?  They need never know she was here: the sofa’s back faced the door and hid the tea tray on the low table.  She was, however, curious about the voice.  She slowly bunched up her skirts and tucked them between her thighs to prevent a rustle from giving her away, and sat up, peering over the edge of sofa. 

 Doctor Kaladin paced by the wall.  The second man was sitting in a winged armchair by the fire, in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his coat draped over the chair’s back.  He was more sprawling than sitting, his legs hooked over the leather upholstered arm of the chair.  Such a posture, especially in the presence of company, would have been deemed shockingly indecent in the north – both men and women in Shallan’s homeland wore skirts.  But this was a well-proportioned Anglethi man; he wore trousers, and his rolled up sleeves revealed tanned arms firm with muscle.  He had a handsome, open countenance; his features were pleasant and symmetrical.  He was fairer of skin and appeared to lack the acerbic temperament with which Doctor Kaladin was chronically afflicted.  His hair was a queer blond colour – somehow striped, and much too short to tie up in a tail that was the fashion for modern gentlemen.  It was not short enough, either, to be mistaken for a soldier’s or worker’s crop; it tumbled softly halfway down his forehead and was trimmed tightly in the back, leaving his neck bare.   

 “…Anyway, Parliament won't support Father – Ruthar has roused the Opposition and deadlocked us.  The other Dukes refuse to say yea or nay whilst the Crown – as usual – has yet to make up its mind…”

 Shallan carefully adjusted her position on the sofa, pulling her legs up.  She was not careful enough.  The sofa, with its antique wooden frame, creaked.

  _Storms._

 “…Father was depending on Lord Torol to back us ... but Father is Father and he expects more of people than they are ever likely to—”

 “What was that?” said Kaladin.

 Shallan quickly yanked her skirts out from under her legs from where they were pinned, and lay back.  She closed her eyes, threw an arm over her face; as an afterthought, she placed her book open on her chest.

 There were footsteps, drawing near.  Not a moment too soon.  She didn’t dare to try and peek through her lashes; their nervous flutter would give her away.

 “It’s the girl.”  That was Kaladin.

 "ls it her?  Storms, _it is!_   Pretty, but rather fragile looking, she is.  Wouldn't you say she's delightfully delicate?  Should we wake her?” 

 “Delightful?  _Delicate?_   She is anything but!  I struggle to find words to describe her other than _‘utterly unsuitable’_.  I trust your judgment to be sounder on the matter of horseflesh than maidenflesh: the former, at least, would give you a ride without a throw; look at her – she is skinny and speckled like a frog.”

 “These days, I am under the impression my dearest father would accept a frog as a daughter-in-law without complaint,” the blond man replied.  

 “Would _you_ accept one?” said Kaladin, charming as ever.

 “If a kiss could prove a Scottish frog a princess, I would have no cause for regret.  Summon a servant for her, then, Kal.  I am going up.”

 She heard the clink as he placed the wine glass on the tea tray.  There were footsteps drawing farther away, then the sound of the door opening and closing with a final click.

 “I know you’re not asleep,” said Kaladin.  “Sleeping people don’t hold their breath like that.”

 Shallan didn’t move.

The wine glass was picked up, she heard a gulp, and it was set back down again. 

 “Go to bed.  I’m sure you’ve done enough sneaking about to easily find your own room from here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Backstory in context -  
> In this universe, the Anglethi united Ireland (Irenatan?) into one Kingdom. They did not like it, and King Gavilar I was assassinated by rebels. There was a Vengeance Pact, etc etc. Kaladin studied to become a physician in Kharbranth. Tien was a carpenter's apprentice at home and when the war happened, he volunteered out of patriotism. Lirin already had his prized surgeon son by then so didn't do a good job of stopping him. Kaladin joined the army as a combat medic when he found out, but Tien still died. Tien has to die in every universe, like Batman's parents.
> 
> Though you probably have already guessed at some of it, Prince Dalinar is fighting a war against the marshpeople in Ireland. There are rebels, rebel sympathisers, and anti-Anglethi factions, all very mysterious, and Laird Davar and Helaran Davar were part of them. Laird Davar caused the family's bankruptcy lending money to the wrong group, and Helaran ran away from home for ideological reasons.
> 
> Kaladin has not had good experiences with red-haired foreigners and suspects most of them are spies or terrorists. However, the Scots/Vedens have been part of the Anglethi Kingdom for hundreds of years and although they aren't Anglethi, they are still loyal subjects in the eyes of the ruling class.


	3. III

 Shallan was woken by a housemaid at quarter-to-nine, when the curtains around the bed were dragged open with no warning.  Bright sunlight and fresh, wholesome country air streamed in; it was probably what doctors all round the country ordered for curing the feminine hysterics – she would not be the least surprised if it was a cure _that_ particular Doctor was fond of recommending.  Shallan, completely gracelessly, rolled onto her stomach and heaved the blanket over her head.

 “Lady Shallan!  If you don’t rise now, your bath shall get cold – and Her Ladyship has requested your presence in the Teal Drawing Room at half-past-nine for breakfast.”

  _Oh.  Lady Jasnah.  Things to do to-day.  Doing things, what an absolutely dreadful notion._

 Shallan groaned and stirred; waking up – rather, being woken up – never failed to make her feel cross and fatigued.   It took minutes to regain her faculties, and in the meantime her limbs hung leaden and clumsy.  That was why when she kicked the blanket off, the cold bed-warmer fell from the bed onto the parquet with a loud clank, spraying a cloud of ash down the side of the linens that settled slowly onto the floor. 

 This is what came of bothering to get out of bed in the morning.

 Numbly, Shallan allowed the maid to drape a dressing gown over her nightdress, and lead her lethargically down the hall toward the bathing chamber and the waiting bath.  The chamber’s floor was of alternating tiles in blue and white, and the walls were painted white and scattered with framed pictures of artistically stylised towers.  She undressed while staring at the wall with no particular interest; her eyes were unfocused and her mind was still dully contemplating the dream she was having when she was so rudely awoken.  It was something about beads, endless beads under an endless black sky ... strange, wasn’t it, how quickly dreams fled from the mind in the light of day. 

 When she stepped into the lukewarm water of the tub, the events of the previous evening hit her with humiliating clarity; she shuddered with the desperate cringing embarrassment of hindsight and slid her face underwater.  No-one heard her screams: there came only the sound of occasional splashing; merry bubbles rose gently to the surface.

 After the bath, Shallan felt much better.

 

 ***

 

 Shallan arrived at the Teal Drawing Room three minutes past the half-hour.  True to its name, it was tastefully papered in delicate shades of teal and pastel turquoise; the moulding on the ceilings was white and resembled frozen tidal waves.   Jasnah was seated already, looking perfectly refreshed for the morning – there was a cup of tea by her left hand and a rack of news sheets hanging from a wooden dolly on the floor by her right.  Her hair was fashionably done up with carved bone sticks, and her lips were painted a deep red. 

 A footman with a tray drew next to Shallan’s elbow and began unloading plates.  Toasted bread rolls in a basket, fruit preserves, a small bowl of bland but healthful broth, miniature scones with butter and cream, fresh fruits peeled and sliced with a small jar of powdered white sugar on the side.  The cutlery was silver to-day; the shields in relief on the handle were enamelled in white.  She felt a pang when the footman retreated and she saw that there was no oatmeal; nothing on the table was made with oats.

 “You look well this morning,” commented Jasnah.  She took a sip of tea.  Her lips left no red smear on fine white porcelain.   How did she do it?

 “I’m as well as could be expected,” said Shallan.  She loaded her plate and started eating.  How convenient it was that the Kholins had servants that made sure all their bread was buttered, whether they were going to eat it or not.   

 “You should present a more amiable temperament, Shallan, if you want the gentlemen more favourably disposed toward you.  Especially in the morning.”

 “By the time they find out what I’m like in the morning, it will be too late,” replied Shallan through a mouthful of bread and jam.  Strawberry jam; that was a delight.  She had not tasted jam this nice in years.  The inns’ guest breakfasts served cheap jam made with more aspic than sugar, which left an unpleasant lingering aftertaste: after a disappointing try at the first inn, she had eaten her bread plain for the rest of the journey.

 “Nevertheless,” sighed Jasnah, “we want you to make a positive impression.   If one cannot be congenial, one should always defer to courtesy.  However, if all goes well and Cousin Adolin is pleased to make your acquaintance, we shall have an official presentation for the Family next week, before my uncle returns to the front.

 “I have confidence that, if this suit proves successful, we should remain firm allies.  There is much work to be done, and a mutual co-operation would be ... beneficial.  The Queen Dowager, my mother, has influence but no power.  My sister-in-law, the Queen, has no interest.  You understand, Shallan.”

 There was truth in that, an unexpectedly tentative truth, but it was still there, feebly revealing itself to her.  Jasnah, in a roundabout fashion – was she even aware of it? – was showing Shallan something of her own vulnerability, as brief a view as it was.  She had helped Jasnah bathe and had seen her undressed; Jasnah had not lied yet to Shallan nor ever had any reason to – but suddenly this last sentence outstripped the level of intimacy to which she had previously been privy.   Shallan was queerly gratified to know that the confident Jasnah could feel she might falter from the weight of bearing her burdens alone.

 Shallan took a gulp of tea to wash the bread down.  It was very hot tea.

 “I am grateful,” she gasped, clearing her throat.  “For the opportunity.  Of course.  But would you not have accomplished your objectives sooner with a girl more biddable?”

 “A compliant girl would be next to useless at court; she would not be able to hold my cousin's overeager attentions: I _have_ tried that before.”  

 “And … have you not tried for an advantageous match of your own?” asked Shallan.  This was very forward, but Shallan was no Anglethi, after all.  She had been curious, and there never had been an opportunity – before this – to know; inquiries to others on the subject would have felt a duplicitous intrusion, as most information from second- or third-hand sources was likely to be no more valuable than common gossip.  Jasnah, as a historian and scholar, was naturally disdainful of anything that wasn’t primary.  Even that, sometimes, required wary scepticism.

 Jasnah looked at Shallan.  Shallan sensed that Jasnah was looking in her direction, but wasn’t looking at her.  Their eyes didn’t meet, but rather wavered to and fro; no doubt each woman was gazing intently at the other’s nose without making it obvious that she was.  A pervasive tension hummed in the air; she felt that Jasnah was as likely to share another truth as she was to tell her to stop asking prying questions and finish her breakfast. 

 Jasnah finally spoke: “There are certain – responsibilities – involved in marriage that I find I cannot accept.  I will admit to this: I rank as Countess rather than Princess not because of relegation, no matter the rumour, but by my own choice.

 “I am grateful – though I cannot say I am approving – that you willingly make yourself beholden to a man, even if society judges him to be a good one and a smart match.   If ever the responsibilities become ... unpalatable ... to you, you must inform me while there is still time.

 “But never mind, the day passes; we must get on.”

 Jasnah plucked the napkin off her lap and dropped it on her plate; as if on cue, the footman on duty at the door was by her side to pull out her chair.   The newspaper rack was carried away and the settings were cleared as Shallan finished her last bite.

 Jasnah, standing now, said, “My cousin was expected to arrive after dinner last evening; we meant to make the first introduction then.   He was delayed, so we might as well do it now.  They are in the North Courtyard for their morning constitutionals – shall we join them?”

 

***

 

 The morning constitutionals were still ongoing when they had arrived at the North Courtyard.  Jasnah, after eyeing the butler directing the footmen in raising a large white tent outside their viewing pavilion, summoned a servant to run back to their rooms to collect some personal items for their diversion.  Shallan now had her satchel of sketchbooks and pen boxes, and Jasnah a few books.

 The North Courtyard was a sunny area screened from the drive by a row of ornamental topiary.  It was paved with large square tiles of smoothly pebbled concrete; unlike the courtyard and entryway at her father’s house in Scotland, this Courtyard had no cracks from which persistent weeds crawled out of the ground.   A hemi-circular colonnaded pavilion jutted from a wing of the House, and was furnished with an oval table and cast iron chairs that servants had cushioned before allowing them to be seated.    Aproned servants were now setting up a smaller table by the wall, snapping out crisp white cloths and pushing trolleys clattering with porcelain settings.

 Shallan was now sketching the capitals – the elaborate twining reliefs on either end of the sandstone columns.  They were stylised grapevines and leaves. It was a novel drawing exercise for her – she was an amateur scholar of natural history, dabbling now and then into botany, but she had few specimens on which to practise her taxonomic skills.  The estate around her home, she thought rather wistfully, had thistle and heather, hare and dogs and deer.  There was a considerable amount of each, but the lack of variety was – one might admit – not particularly rewarding.

 After turning to a new page in her sketchbook and scraping a fresh point onto her charcoal with a folded paper sleeve of emery, Shallan noticed a sharp _clack, clack, clack-_ ing had risen above the general murmur and hubbub of servants at work.  It was something that one got used to, after a time – the sounds of servants were like creaking cicadas.  They eventually faded into the background and you forgot they existed until you needed something – at that point they were nowhere to be found.  She supposed that was why the best butlers and ladies’ maids were habitually poached from one Grand House to another: everyone found valuable in a servant the rare talent of having at hand what you needed before you had even realised it yourself.

 On the courtyard, two men were whacking one another with sticks.  They were not plain peasant sticks, as one could find on the ground or in a stack of firewood, but polished and weighted sticks three feet long, with round leather guards to cover the hands.  The men were wearing thick white quilted jackets and peculiar hood-like head coverings with stiff wire netting over the face; flat muslin pockets of coloured chalk were pinned to cover the tops of their heads and half their foreheads.  One man had pink chalk, the other had blue.  Smears of chalk were evident on their chests and shoulders.

 She had seen the middies and cabin boys of the _Wind’s Pleasure_ being taught to hit each other with sticks in a similar fashion by a sailor.  Shallan had been told that it was a way for the boys to strengthen their arms and reflexes in order that they be prepared for the day when they might bear cutlasses to repel unwelcome boarders.  She could scarcely enjoy watching people willingly – or not – be hit by sticks for sport when the idea of it made something in her chest quail with uncharacteristic panic.

 She turned her thoughts away from that dark path, and picked up her charcoal to continue her sketching – this time of the tall and strangely shaped kettle device that the servants had set up in the corner.  It looked like a teapot perched on an urn; it was enamelled with an elaborately colourful flower design where its gold plating didn’t peek through.

 “It’s a samovar,” said Jasnah.  “A wedding gift from the family of my late aunt the Duchess.  It is rather convenient – you can make chocolate and tea at the same time, and it stays warm for hours, which unfortunately has the effect of encouraging guests to linger when—” she paused, “—it seems now is the time to tread the boards.”

 Shallan looked up, startled, then hurriedly swept her pencils into their wooden box; she rose to her feet.

 Two men were approaching the pavilion, followed by servants.  One was the tall and uncomfortably familiar figure of Doctor Kaladin – she felt her ears going red in humiliation – and the second was only slightly shorter but more solidly built; he walked with the carelessly confident poise of the high nobility: _was this—?_

 “Jasnah!” he called, waving an arm at her.  He jogged up.  He wore a loose shirt with collar unbuttoned under a blue waistcoast, and he had no neckcloth; a darker blue coat was slung over an arm.  On the courtyard, the tent was being efficiently dismantled.

 Behind Shallan, Jasnah sighed and stepped forward.

 “Cousin Adolin.”  She closed her eyes and inclined her head for the requisite kiss.  The Duke did not have to bend to kiss her on both cheeks; her dressed hair with its carved hairsticks gave her the impression of equal height although she was a few inches shorter.  “May I present my new ward?”

 “Yes, of course, one ought to do things properly,” said the Duke.  Doctor Kaladin had caught up with the servants; they exchanged meaningful glances and turned toward Shallan. 

 Shallan’s breath felt as if it were rising up to choke her; she thought that if she coughed, she would not be surprised if it fell in curd-like chunks from her lips.

 “Adolin, this is Shallan Davar, daughter of Lin, Laird – Baron by our measure – of Loch Davar, of the Clan McValam.   She has been my travelling companion and ward these last six months.”

 Shallan drew up her skirts and dipped into the low curtsey one made as a social inferior in a formal setting.  When was the last time she had properly practised it?  Before her mother’s unfortunate death?  The last time she could recall needing to curtsey perfectly with straight back and shoulders and bent knees was when she was thirteen years old, pledging herself as kinswoman in front of The McValam for the one time necessary to confirm her entry to the clan. 

 She held the position for two beats and stood upright; when she straightened, she saw she was eye level with the Duke’s chin.  He really had the most remarkable hair: she had thought it blond with stripes in the firelight last evening, but the stripes were actually individual strands of black upon closer inspection.  His brows were the same mottled colour.  Upon gazing at his chin – she hadn’t met his eyes, and hadn’t wanted to – she found herself curiously contemplating the colour of his beard; he was clean shaven now, but if he grew it out, would it match his hair?  … Would his – other – hair be like that as well?  Her ears remained unbecomingly warm at the brazenness; she was suddenly pathetically grateful that her own hair was red and that she had worn it down to-day.

 “Shallan, I present my cousin, His Grace the Duke Kholinar, Adolin Kholin.  Major—”

 “—Lieutenant Colonel.”

 “—Lieutenant Colonel,” Jasnah corrected smoothly, “of His Majesty’s Home Regiments.”

 He gave a courtly full bow – more appropriate for someone his own social equal, like Jasnah – and took her right hand with his left.  She looked down at their hands:  hers was slim and freckled with grey smudges of charcoal over the knuckle and down the wrist where she had brushed against her sketched pages; he had larger squared fingers with callused palms, and blue chalk dust was caught under a few of the nails.  He held her hand unexpectedly gently and raised it to his lips.

 She met his eyes.

 She had always thought that blue eyes were neither rare nor special – everyone in her family had them – and she was satisfied in this confirmation: his eyes were not a particularly unique shade of blue.  They didn’t glow or twinkle or sparkle or appear mysterious in any way like the novels said they should.  They were not mysterious at all; rather, they were friendly and open, but on the whole, quite ordinary.  It was a pleasant contrast to Kaladin; his looked like he was thinking about all things you were doing wrong, even if you just happened to be walking past minding your own affairs.

 His kissed the air above her hand.  Of course that was correct and proper for a bachelor greeting an unwed lady for the first time, but Shallan couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment.

 She quashed the thought.  She was supposed to feel heartsick at leaving her beloved highland home, and becoming Jasnah’s ward was a hard-won childhood dream that she had desired ever since she had found and read that very first essay.  To put a halt to her research, to throw it away, all for the sake of a handsome man – even at Jasnah’s behest – that felt like weakness and wrongness.  It was to be borne – or rather, suffered, however uncomfortably – as the necessary price of so advantageous a connection.  If Shallan were to do it, to become a sorrowful but willing sacrifice on the altar of matrimony, aching regret ought to be the very least of her emotions.

 He winked, then released her hand.

 The disappointment could not be suppressed.

 “Now,” Jasnah said, clapping her hands.  “That’s done with.  Shall we to luncheon?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the scene that I wish had been the first chapter of WoR. Jasnah proves she has a heart! A shrivelled, dusty heart with a few dings in it, but it’s still there and she wants to protect Shallan while still using her at the same time. 
> 
> I write Shallan as snarky but not non-stop puns because 1) it doesn’t fit the genre 2) I am not funny 3) I found it kind of annoying after a while. I also don’t write Kaladin as the 100% angry jerk some people expect him to be, because here his character has already developed since he became friends with Adolin earlier than the original timeline. He has already figured out that not all noblemen are trash and to replay an AU version of the notoriously polarising WoR Prison Scene would be make me go blaaarrgghhh. YMMV, etc.
> 
> The Davar kids traded the aluminium necklace for oats. Oatmeal now gives Shallan homesickness. She would probably throw up if she had to eat plain oats boiled in water again, but it’s still nostalgia.  
> Jasnah is sour about Amaram, who is Viscount Meridas in this universe. She is obliquely referring to him (“even if society judges him to be a good one and a smart match”) while Shallan thinks she is talking about Adolin. And saucy details: a Countess (female Earl) can refuse a suit from a Viscount without scandal, and as a landowning peer cannot be easily married off to a foreigner by the King as a Princess might. 
> 
> The exercise they are doing is the traditional British stick fighting sport, singlesticks. It is used as practice for swordfighting, because I thought that foil fencing was too "continental" for Adolin and too fancy for Kaladin. The tent that was being set up is a changing room, in case you were wondering. And yes, in this universe, Kaladin is aware of what colour Adolin's "other hair" is.


	4. IV

 The Duke did not wait for a footman to show Shallan to her seat; instead, he pushed in her chair himself before finding his own, to her right.  Doctor Kaladin did not oblige Jasnah equal courtesy; he found his own seat opposite theirs silently.  Jasnah did not appear to notice Kaladin’s show of tactlessness, and she did not seem to care.  Even so, one had to wonder if it was caused by an excess of gross insolence or gross ignorance: either option marked any character as unpleasant – which was, of course, perfectly applicable as a description of the Doctor.

 As they were unfolding their napkins and settling into their seats – Shallan inconspicuously toeing her sketchbooks and satchel under the table, the Duke and the Doctor folding their coats over the backs of the seats – the butler, carrying boxes, approached the table.  He approached the seated Duke, bowed, and offered him the first, smaller, box.

 There was a ring inside it.  It was a heavy gold seal ring with an oval face, with a design carved deeply in reverse.  The Duke slipped it onto his left hand, the hand nearest Shallan; she saw that it was of a crown over a tower, surrounded by an engraved linked chain that curved all the way around the bezel as a border.  The empty box was handed back to the butler, and the second, a flat square box, was offered to Kaladin. 

 Kaladin waved it away, she heard him mutter “afterwards”, and the butler withdrew with both boxes. 

 The first course – a clear broth – was served and a white wine was uncorked, tasted, and poured for all but Kaladin.  A servant took away his wineglass and replaced it with a short glass of watery smallbeer. 

 How was it that Kaladin could do everything different from everyone else, yet there were no comments on the ungracious contrariness of his manner?  As a retainer to the Duke, should he not have more respect for the guests of his employer?  It was by the benevolence of his superiors – and their indulgent condescension – that he was seated at this very table, eating their food; it was incredibly galling to Shallan that he seemed not to care either way.  She, at her father’s estate, struggled to find suitable companionship her social equal; there was no-one within a day’s travel higher than the daughters of farmers who owned their holdings outright.  Even her governess, the well-educated daughter of a diplomatic attaché, was no more than middle class.  Madame Tyn had been born and raised abroad, and yet she was easily Kaladin’s superior in social decorum. 

 She was intent on dissecting the evidence of Kaladin’s ambiguous status – was he really middle class?  He was a confirmed physician; Jasnah had accepted his credentials as genuine.  Was he a natural-born son of someone important?  He could not possibly be the Duke’s brother – they shared no resemblance – and a reveal of illegitimacy, or even a claim of it, would have been scandalous enough gossip to reach even the most distant of country estates in the frigid northern highlands.

 Thus she was surprised when her half-finished bowl of broth was gently slid out from under her raised spoon and replaced by what appeared to be the second, third and fourth removes simultaneously.  Shallan’s senses returned to her. 

 The Duke and Kaladin were intent on eating; footmen were continuously circulating with trays and tongs to refresh their plates.  On the side table with the samovar, the butler was furiously carving a whole poached chicken into even white slices; behind him, two more chickens were awaiting the knife.  Jasnah was tapping Shallan’s feet under the table with her own, and wiggling her eyebrows in a meaningful way.   It occurred to her that no-one had said anything since the luncheon’s start.

 “Your Grace—” she finally managed to say.

 The Duke winced and, rather reluctantly, put down his fork.  “Please.  I notice that you and Jasnah have dispensed with proper address; although decency would disapprove: so recent was our introduction – you may do so with me.  Such formality is unnecessary, for now, whilst we are here among friends.”

 “Of course, m—Adolin,” she said, floundering for something to talk about.   She had not expected to be chastised this early, however gently. “Um.  Your hair is nice.”

  _Blessed Heralds._   As soon as she returned to the House, she would have to have a bath drawn and then she would see if she could fit her foot into her mouth.

 The Duke – Adolin – blinked.  He glanced at Kaladin, who shrugged and continued eating.  Jasnah was intently studying something on the ceiling of the pavilion.  Perhaps it was the carved vine leaves.   The footman pouring a thick peppery gravy onto Adolin’s sliced chicken had his eyes downcast, but he was smirking.

 “My hair?”

  _Almighty, save me._

 “Yes,” said Shallan desperately, “blond hair and stripes are rarely seen in the north.”

 “You know,” said Adolin, returning to his food.  It seemed that very little could dampen his appetite, not even pathetically awkward – verging on rude – personal comments. “Some people would say it is a mark of my bloodline being impure.”

 “Everyone must come from somewhere, sir,” said Shallan.  Manners, ground in from years of instruction, objected to the thought of addressing so fresh an acquaintance by his Vorin name.  Her mind cast about for something to say that would offend no-one.  “Back home we consider you Anglethi to be the foreigners.”

_…Storms._

 “Really,” said Kaladin.  He was inspecting an asparagus spear impaled on his knife. 

 “We Scots,” she began, “have been on these fair isles years before anyone from the East Continent ever beached a hull here.  My former governess made a study of languages; she once told me that the word _‘Anglethi’_ originated from a tribe from a northern peninsula in the East.”

 Adolin smiled.  “Were you aware that my mother came from the East Continent?” 

 “Then your blood is as pure – more pure – than those who seek to tell you otherwise.   In any case,” she paused; her eyes met Kaladin’s for one brief moment.  “The fact that I am here shows that wealth speaks a language anyone can understand.”

 “Yes, I suppose you're right.   That is not something any woman has ever had the temerity to admit.”

 He was agreeing instead of bewildered now.  It was a change that Shallan could work with; she thought she was starting to get the hang of talking to gentlemen.

 “And in my experience – limited as it is – a nobleman who boasts of his purity appeals to his pedigree,” Shallan said, “because if it was merely wealth that elevates a man, then every common man should have the potential in him to be noble.   So what makes a man noble?”

 Shallan glanced across the table.  Jasnah was nodding, a faint smile on her face.

 “Some would say it is ultimately granted to us by the Almighty,” remarked Adolin.   It was the typical response one learned at church; Adolin said it rather flatly – it sounded like something that had been memorised and recited countless times in the past, and now could be regurgitated on command.

 “Ah, the inherent dignity; that is a topic on which Jasnah is fiercely keen on lecturing,” she said.

 Jasnah sighed loudly.

 Shallan continued: “It has always urged me to wonder, if some men are elevated over others, and they above other men, by the Almighty's grace, how would we tell?” — here her eyes flicked across the table.  Adolin looked blank, Kaladin was eyeing her over the rim of his glass with his darkly inscrutable gaze. “—Does His grace exist in some tangible form?  If it were so, then I daresay we should be using the King's clysters to cure cholera.”

 There was a gagging sound.  Kaladin had apparently – somehow – managed to spray his smallbeer out through his nose and was now coughing vigorously.

 Adolin, who had been smiling, burst into laughter, and slapped the table.  He had not the type of laugh that could ever be considered pretty, or delicate, as ones cultivated by governesses everywhere; it could be described as a sort of happy guffaw that Shallan would have liked to hear again and again.

 “Blasphemy and _lèse majesté_ in one go!  Impressive – I quite like it!”

 Shallan reddened slightly, pleased.  “This conversation was begun by your insisting on familiarity, sir."

 “It's remarkably refreshing, in honesty,” said Adolin, looking at her directly.  He seemed more disposed toward friendliness now than before – compared to previously, which perhaps in hindsight seemed mere charitable condescension; it was as if a dam of cautious reservation had broken at last and now something in him could no longer recognise her as either a threat or a stranger.  “I should enjoy growing used to this.  Now I see why Cousin Jasnah has become so fond of you – and it is rare of her to willingly suffer the company of others.”

 “Dear Cousin,” said Jasnah, smiling.  “You wound me!  Should I remind you of your own companions, or lack thereof?”

 “Kal is right here, you know,” Adolin said.

 “Thank you for noticing.”  Kaladin had wiped his face with a napkin.  Shallan thought the twenty or so undignified seconds where he was gasping for breath and choking on his drink something she would remember for years.

 “Your father and your aunt my mother would find him neither suitable nor capable for their purposes ... in a manner of speaking,” Jasnah said.  Kaladin cleared his throat loudly at that, then muttered something unintelligible under his breath.  “Nevertheless, if ever you find yourself disinterested in maintaining an acquaintanceship with Lady Shallan, I should be pleased to take her back to Ivory Lane with me.  I am to return there shortly.”

 “She is a strange woman indeed, but here I find myself rather … pleasantly intrigued.  What are your plans, Cousin?”

 “I am for the the City to-morrow,” Jasnah replied, “there are some things I must see to at the Palace and I think it best that I stop to visit my own house.  I shall be back within four days.”

 “Lady Jasnah, will you go unaccompanied?” asked Shallan.

 “Your scholarship must continue even while I am absent.  There are tasks I will expect you to have seen to when I return.”

 “Of course.  Adolin, when we were at the village yesterday, I spied a church there that I am most eager to visit.  Would it not be possible to borrow a carriage to pay a call?”

 “I am expected in the village to-morrow to approve some tenancy contracts.  The good Doctor was to accompany me, but I am delighted if you were to join us.  We must make it an event: have luncheon with me.  If you are to stay here – and I dare hope you may – you must at least familiarise yourself with the village of Courtlea,” said Adolin.  He patted his lips with his napkin, then tossed it onto the table.

 “Of course, it would be my pleasure,” Shallan said.  She untwisted her own napkin from where her nervous fingers had knotted it during her earlier blundering attempt at conversation.  There were grey marks on the white linen where charcoal had rubbed off.

 The servants were clearing the dishes now, so she stood.  Adolin rose too, followed by Jasnah.  Kaladin remained seated.   He didn’t rise for a lady, and he didn’t rise for the highest in precedence at the table, that storming man.  But he rose for the chicken.  A footman was reaching over the table for an empty ribcage on a tray.  There was a forlorn drumstick on the side; Kaladin stood and plucked it off.  He ate it while Shallan glared at him.  He looked rather smug, which was something he could somehow do, without smiling or giving the impression that anything made him happy.

  _Well, I know what you look like shooting beer out of your nose_ , she thought to herself.  It was a cheering thought.

 

***

 

 Dinner was disappointingly subdued that evening, or so thought Shallan.  Jasnah had ordered their meal brought to the Teal Drawing Room again; she blithely disregarded protocol which dictated that such rooms, by the mere nature of their being Drawing Rooms, were designated for withdrawing – for after-dinner drinks and diversions, and occasionally mornings and early afternoons if one was entertaining.  Eating dinner, naturally, took place in one’s dining room; Kholinar Court had a particularly fine one that Shallan approved of heartily. She had held it in higher esteem than her dining companions – if the word “companion” could be stretched far enough to include Kaladin, she was sure it would break – since that first evening she had arrived to the House. 

 “Could we have had dinner with the gentlemen?” asked Shallan, struggling to keep the petulance out of her tone.  “They must be wondering why we are missing.”

 “I told Adolin that I had asked for your help in packing,” said Jasnah with a serene smile. “He wanted to know why I needed an additional pair of hands to pack when I was to be away for only four days – and to visit my own house.”

 “Well, it seems a perfectly valid question to me.”

 “And that is why neither of you are wed.  I am attempting to remedy that, of course.  You must trust me, and trust in my plan—” she paused, “—so shall it succeed.  If you were curious as to the real reason, it was for his impression of you crystallise favourably whilst I buy time for your being prepared next you see him.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say.”

 “When did you become an expert on the workings of hearts and men?  You’re almost a spinster!”

 “I know enough of men,” said Jasnah coolly, “to welcome spinsterhood.  Your attitude is really doing you no favours; I now recognise that it was a remarkable stroke of foresight to keep you from dining in company.  However, your current agitation may be an auspicious sign.  How terribly splendid.”

 “What do you mean?” Shallan demanded.

 “You seem to have developed – I had the satisfaction to observe today – agreeable sentiments toward my cousin.  That is very good.  It would have been more difficult for you to go along with the plan if you had found his company intolerable, and it would have been even more frustrating for me to convince you to do so in spite of it.”

 That was Jasnah, being mis-Jasnah-istic as usual, Shallan thought crossly.  But now she did have to wonder, how much of her ill-humoured peevishness to-night was caused by her disappointment in not seeing Adolin again?  Was her mind now befuddled by an excess of emotion?  It was hard to tell, but if Jasnah had noticed enough to comment, she must surely be making a villain of herself.  Was this love? 

 She did not know if her heart had grown two sizes larger, and she was not aware that anything battered against her ribs with the yearning of cagéd doves’ wings.  She supposed that if she did feel something along those symptoms, the immediately sensible response would be to send for Doctor Kaladin. Imagining him by her bedside, diagnosing her with an overabundance of feminine sentimentality and telling her he had just the cure for it, brought her a brief moment of surreal amusement.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any resemblance to the scenes in WoR where Shallan and Adolin met for the first and second times is not accidental.
> 
> Adolin has a personal seal because spanreeds don't exist and people still write letters.  
> Kaladin’s box had a gun in it. He doesn’t put it on at the table not because he doesn’t want to be rude and frighten the ladies, but because he is sneaky and doesn’t want Shallan to know he has one. He is a part-time bodyguard which is why he gets invited to things even though people don’t want him to be there.  
> Every Regency romance has to have baseless assumptions and conclusions being drawn out of nowhere for drama reasons, when they could have easily been cleared up just by characters talking to each other.  
> I can’t write funny so I wrote cringe comedy. If you felt second-hand shame on Shallan’s behalf while reading this chapter, I did it right.  
> The original Anglo-Saxons came from Angeln, which is somewhere around modern Denmark/Northern Germany
> 
>  
> 
> The subtext:  
> Kaladin thinks Shallan is high-handed and he’s right. She snarks on the divine right of kings, but is elitist and very socially conscious and isn’t really aware of it. She forgets that there are servants around when they’re right in the room, which is why she says things that could be construed as treason.  
> The East Continent is Europe. Adolin’s mother in this universe is ethnically German and probably Prussian. Adolin doesn’t speak German; he doesn’t even like reading Anglish.  
> “Wealth speaks a language” - Shallan is trying to tell Kaladin that she’s a gold digger, not a spy.  
> Medieval medicine is weird. They used to think things that were shaped like noses could cure sneezing, and that sacred body parts like saints' knucklebones were miracle cures. Magical holy clysters for cholera is Shallan referencing this.  
> Kaladin gets the joke faster than Adolin. “Neither suitable nor capable” is Jasnah commenting that Kaladin can’t produce an heir, and that Adolin should be looking for a companion who can. Everyone snarks better than Adolin. :(  
> "And that is why neither of you are wed" - Jasnah is commenting that Adolin, as a typical bachelor doesn't know how women and clothing work. And also that Shallan is so naive about men that she doesn't know about lying to get what she wants.  
> "Imagining him by her bedside" - this is a reference to plots of doctor romance novels, which weren't invented at this time, because doctors and lawyers and anyone who worked for a living were considered unfortunately middle class.


	5. V

 She spent the rest of the evening with Jasnah going over scholarly readings that they had collected in their months in Kharbranth and its extensive library.  The journey on the _Wind’s Pleasure_ had involved much sorting and cataloguing of sources. There did not seem to be any conclusive or consistent voice in the clamour of self-aggrandising past historians and philosophical theorists, but Jasnah believed that there was one thread they had in common:  the current unrest that had started on the East Continent and unfurled its vicious strangling tentacles into the Anglethi Isles they called home had been repeated in the past.  It was a cycle.

 The assassination of King Gavilar I, Jasnah’s father, had been a crucial tipping point.  Of what sort exactly, neither Jasnah nor Shallan was sure; Jasnah was certain that it had been orchestrated by organisations unknown when the King was on the verge of discovering the same pattern that she was currently struggling to identify.  His death had sent the Anglethi into outraged animation; Parliament, the Dukes, and the Crown Prince had aligned as one for the first time in Shallan’s memory and thus the Vengeance Pact was born.  The war against the marshpeople of the western isle had, over recent years, eventually morphed from a justified reprisal to its current state of uneasy attrition.

 Jasnah speculated that the Continent and the Isles were poised on the brink of something enormous, more than total war between all the civilised nations.  She thought that there was something more, something … unworldly.  Jasnah was not pious; she was more than once to be found mocking the superstitious beliefs of others – sometimes to their faces – but lately all the material she had been reading and annotating were religious texts.  The Heralds were involved, Shallan was told; these holy servants of the Almighty were not just messengers who dropped legendary relics into the hands of the truly worthy, whenever historical – or religious – narrative called for a convenient bit of _Deus ex machina_.  No, they were more than that – they must be.  The books of Vorinism repeatedly mentioned the importance of symmetry; its value had become ingrained into Anglethi culture such that anything written in palindrome was holy by association. 

 Where the Tranquiline Halls were reward for the devout and heroic, there was Damnation as punishment for those who were not.  Where the Almighty had raised men up and given them the choice to be good and honourable, conversely, men had also been granted the choice to be otherwise; when there was once the endless Darkness of nothing, the Almighty brought the Light of Cultivation.  Where there was a benevolent Almighty, there must be a malevolent … Something.  And that was the basis of the existence of the Heralds, or so thought Jasnah.

 This was Jasnah’s Great Purpose.  To find the seeds of chaos, to find the place from whence they sprouted.  Their vile writhing tendrils were twining the Anglethi into their grip; King Gavilar’s death had seen to that.  Chaos and destruction and confusion; the pain and the hate and the fear that men felt – the Something fed on it, whatever It was, and wars on the Continent and in the Isles were symptoms of Its spreading power and influence.

 The explanation that Jasnah had given Shallan had sent her reeling in shock the first time she heard it.  Shallan had always held her faith in Vorinism in a special place; it was a cherished comfort and a focus of clarity in her youth, when she had had need of it most.  The most common books of Vorin writings were held in her heart with the gentle fuzziness of childhood nostalgia; Jasnah’s insistence that she re-read them with the perspective of an analytical scholar searching for evidence of Apocalypse had near caused Shallan to question the decision to be her ward.

 Shallan had eventually seen where Jasnah’s logic lay, however frightening it was to contemplate the fearful symmetry of a being whose ability, nay _purpose_ , was to counteract all that was Grace and Light in the Almighty.  And it was thus that Shallan’s role was to study and locate “holy points”; she hypothesised, to Jasnah’s approval, that the Church of Vorinism was not only founded on the holy symmetry of palindrome – but the Church’s very stones were built on sites of ancient holiness, which harboured clues to the presumed location of either Heralds or their relics. 

 The Teal Drawing Room had been commandeered by Jasnah for their communal study – there was a snooker table by the wall whose flat wooden cover had been ideal for laying down papers in orders of usefulness; the rack underneath now held books Jasnah thought were the most appropriate for quick reference.  Inside the Teal Room, chimney lamps shed light through glass funnels etched with waves-in-motion.  Outside, a storm lashed against the diamond paned window; rain drummed against the eaves and surged through the open mouths of the House’s fanciful statuary.

 

***

  
 By morning, the rain had steadied to a grey and diffuse drizzle that clung to everything with a clammy chillness.  The horizon outside her bedroom’s window had been obscured by mist; the lawns of the Court were soft with feathered grey-white – Shallan, as she was laced up by the housemaid, wryly noted it was almost like the Castle-in-the-Clouds that frequently featured in old tales beloved by little girls and calculating governesses who aimed to show their charges the importance of an advantageous match. 

 To the maid’s sniff of disapproval, Shallan picked out the boots that had been brought from Scotland.  After some hesitation – but no comment, fortunately – the maid took the heavy walking boots and knelt at Shallan’s feet to slide them on and tie them up.  The boots were fashioned from thick steershide boiled in wax, with nailed soles that threatened the parquet with each and every step.  Comfortably broken in and reliably waterproofed, Shallan had walked the estate of Loch Davar with them; she trusted them more than the soft kidskin half-boots that ladies of leisure commonly wore for country calling.

 Breakfast with Jasnah was quiet as usual:  Shallan was not one to make more than the idlest of chatter when part of her mind was still distant; Jasnah was not one who appreciated the fine art that was making idle chatter.  So she ate strawberry jam on freshly baked scones and relished the thought of yet another breakfast – or meal, to think of it – that did not consist of oatmeal served with a side of oat bannock.   Variety at the Davars’ table had been sacrificed for the sake of prudence after the sale of the aluminium necklace.

 The plates were cleared and Jasnah stood.  Shallan rose also; it was with the ingrained unconsciousness of proper behaviour that Shallan automatically waited on the highest ranking dining companion to leave the table first: those inferior exited in order of precedence.   But before Jasnah left, a thought occurred to her.

 “Jasnah,” said Shallan, “may I borrow your umbrella?  I’m afraid I never brought one from Scotland with me.”

 “No,” Jasnah replied.  “You may not.”

 “But it’s raining!  If you are taking yours away, oughtn’t I to go to the butler and inquire for another?”

 “It will work out better if you didn’t have one, Shallan.  Have some faith in me.”  Jasnah was being purposefully enigmatic; she somehow expected Shallan to divine some ulterior meaning in words that would have been punctuated with a wink if Jasnah was the type of person who would wink at all; all Shallan could hear was Jasnah’s being deliberately obstructive.   Shallan – unlike Jasnah – was no expert on men: she, to her immense and humiliating regret, had no option but to defer to Jasnah’s navigational skills in steering her way through the clandestine mysteries of the heart.

 Jasnah swept out the room as Shallan waited, then followed her into the gallery.  There was a row of windows facing the misted front lawns and gravelled drive of Kholinar Court; two carriages were being led by two matched teams of stamping horses outside the portico of the front door.

 “ _Storms_ , they’re waiting for me!”

 Jasnah had already gone; they had packed a valise for her visit to the City last night before Shallan had retired to her own bedchamber.  Shallan now did not recall packing a bag for herself – and she was meant to join the Duke – Adolin – in the village for a call to the church as well as luncheon to-day. 

 “Storms, storm it _, stormy storming storms_ ,” she muttered; she plucked up the hem of her dress and sprinted back to her room with ungainly speed.  She took the stairs two at a time, keeping to carpet as much as possible – it muffled her unladylike stomping feet in their nailed shoes.  She almost collided with a housemaid descending the stairs; she careened past as the maid leaped aside; she threw open the door to the bedchamber.

 Loose pencils and paper were scattered on the desk; her sketchbook lay open to where she had left it last night: the maid had not touched them.   She was not a particularly athletic person, and the short burst of exertion caused her breath now to come in sharp gasps; her hands trembled and something in her stomach twinged from being jostled after an admittedly indulgent breakfast.  She gathered herself together, bundled her research notes into a waxed paper sleeve, then turned to her desk.

 The sketchbook’s open page was a drawing she had done last night before bed – instead of preparing a bag for the morning, as she now realised she ought to have done.  Sketching settled her thoughts and soothed her mind into the tranquil easiness that prefaced sleep; she always did it to clear her mind after hours of research, lest she be kept awake by endless revolving thoughts on this citation or that reference.  The open drawing was a view of the Loch Davar estate grounds, the place she had called home her entire life; it was drawn in pen and ink with wet brush softening the shading of the cloudy sky; white chalk picked out details and highlights in the foreground.  Something about the rain pattering against the windows last night had prompted her to a sudden, involuntary fit of yearning; she had drawn it with thoughts of homesick longing, then left it open to dry overnight.

 She slid the sketchbook into her satchel.  Then she turned to the trunk at the foot of her bed and lifted the lid: the scent of lavender and memories drifted out; she closed her eyes and bit back a rising sob of hysteria.  She took a breath, sent those memories back.  They were not wanted here.  Her folded tartan was on top; she pulled it out and wrapped the three woollen yards of fabric around herself.  Small muslin sachets of dried lavender dropped out.  Her step-mother had made those for her…

  _No_ , she thought savagely, _now is not the time._

  _What time is it then?_

 The lid of the trunk slammed down; the unlocked latch bounced and clattered.

  _Time to go._

 

***

 

 The grey drizzle continued to murmur over the slate tiled roof of Kholinar Court.  Shallan stood in the covered portico, hesitant; the horses and carriage were not far from the front door, but she would still get wet even if she ran for it – she had no umbrella:  Jasnah had made certain of that.

 She pulled the tartan – draped as a shawl – over her head.  The raw lanolin in the wool would at least give it some protection against the rain. 

 The door of the carriage opened, and a figure detached itself from the interior dimness.  A man, unfolding an umbrella.  Duke Adolin walked across the rain slicked gravel of the drive and to the portico.   Shallan, about to take the first step in a mad dash to the carriage, paused.

 “Have you no umbrella?” he asked.

 “Sir, I left my own in Scotland and have had no opportunity since to acquire another.”

 “Well, the plaid won’t do – remember that you’re in civilised lands now.  You must share mine.”  He held the umbrella out, and she drew next to him.  He took her elbow.  “Shall we?”

 He guided her by the arm – deliberately slowly – she thought, avoiding the puddles.  She leaned against him, trying to stay under the edge of the umbrella, and she felt his hand tighten on her elbow for a moment – then he relaxed.  She took brief sideways glances under her lashes at him; she saw that his chin had the clean smoothness of the recently shaved; she could very faintly smell the brisk herbal aroma of his toilet water.  Then they reached the carriage.  Adolin opened the door for her, and she slid into the upholstered warmth.

 “You look remarkably sprightly this morning.”   _Kaladin._

 She had forgotten that he was supposed to accompany them.  She had also forgotten but now realised all at once that her hair had started to pull out of its braids in the manic sprint up the stairs and back, and that the humidity of the day could do nothing to improve its appearance.

 “I thought you preferred to ride with the driver.”

 “I have had the good fortune of being assigned chaperon; this day gets better and better and it has only just begun,” he said with an exaggerated sigh of wearily strained patience.

 The door on the other side opened, and Adolin stepped in, shaking his umbrella.  “Is it ever too early in the morning for sarcasm?”

 “No,” said Kaladin and Shallan quite simultaneously. 

 “Delightful.”

 

***

 

 The carriage took to the metalled road with a frustratingly cautious pace.  Visibility in the fog was limited; Shallan supposed that the driver had been given a charge to be judicious with the horses – it would not do for one to stumble on rain-loosened gravel; the injury of a beast would have resulted in the passengers’ being obliged to wait for a replacement, or walk the dirty weather themselves.  

 Shallan sat on one padded bench inside the carriage, Kaladin next to her.  Adolin was opposite her, his dripping umbrella leaning against the door; his overcoat with its fur collar was carelessly thrown over a large rectangular briefs satchel.  The air within the carriage, with the three of them inside, had grown still and uncomfortably warm.  Adolin had left the coachman’s window behind his head slightly ajar, but their carriage's slow pace meant no breeze stirred the fug of humidity that their dampness had slowly become.  The benefit of a closed coach like this was that there were no leaking spots common in folding-top Landaus, but as Shallan found now, the closeness was approaching sweltering warmth.

 Each passenger had brought their own diversion for the journey.  Kaladin had in his hands a thin booklet with a simple cover; _The Forceps_ was written across the front.  The interior consisted of the dense double columns of text common to those small publications whose operating costs were priced by the page.  Adolin had a larger album of some sort; in contrast, his had an elaborately detailed letterhead of vines and curlicues on the cover, and, from what Shallan could see, engraved fashion plate illustrations with annotations and price lists.  He sprawled with his back to the door and his feet in the shared aisle of leg-space; perhaps it was something men did when limited space caused their touching knee to knee to become a distinct and fearful possibility.

 Shallan’s own satchel was in her lap; she had pulled out her sketchbook and her wooden pencil box with its sliding lid and useful compartments.  She flicked through the sketchbook, looking for the point where old drawings ended and the fresh paper started.

 “Is that a picture of me?”

 Shallan jumped.

 Kaladin’s eyes were on the sketchbook on her lap.   Shallan found a clean page and smoothed it down.  She had flipped through so quickly, how could he have seen what she’d drawn beyond a blur of grey and brown – let alone identify her drawing as his own portrait?  She took a breath to compose herself. 

 “No, of course not,” she said coolly.  “Why would I have a picture of you?”

 “That is a question you ought to be asking yourself,” he remarked.   He turned back to his periodical.  “My hair doesn’t look like that, you know – you should have made it more curled.  And why didn’t you fill in the irises?  It looks somewhat ghoulish without them.”

  _That storming man._

 Yes, it was true she had drawn a picture of him, she could admit that to herself willingly, if perhaps not eagerly – but she had sketched portraits of Adolin and Jasnah and even herself at one point.  Was it so strange that she had added him to her collection of Memories?   It could be counted irregular that she had spent more time on his picture than the others – but Kaladin possessed a darker complexion than the others, so she had shaded it in; naturally shading the hair followed, and of course, if one coloured the hair, one daren’t forget the rather prominent eyebrows that lent so much unpleasantness to his countenance. 

 She was disinclined to argue with him; she was all too aware that they were both of similar temperament when it came to what could only be civilly described as passionate discourse: neither would concede ground, neither would let the other eventually triumph for the sake of superficial cordiality.  It would not do to quarrel with him, at least not here, where the Duke was undoubtedly listening. 

 So she said: “I am afraid your eyes mistake you, _sir_.”

 They were not particularly gracious words articulated in gracious tones, but she had no gracious sentiments to spare for Kaladin.  He could pick up the dispute and look disagreeably aggressive in front of Adolin – which was not what one did in mixed company, not when she and Adolin were involved in some sort of – embryonic, as yet – understanding.  Adolin might have been compelled to respond in regards to her honour.  In any sort of conventional situation, any conventional man would not have contemplated such conduct, and never with any woman so closely associated with his patron-employer.  But the rules of social decorum did not seem to apply to Kaladin for whatever reason; she could only rely on his friendship with Adolin to hold his opposition in check. 

 Kaladin made an exasperated grunting sound.  Or was it indifferent?  Or sullen?  The man could probably tell a story with his grunts, if only there could be found a single person who cared a whit to listen.

 That the exchange involved behaviour she would consider deplorable and manipulative under most circumstances was slightly appalling; she supposed Jasnah, were she here, would have been appreciative.  It made her feel a somewhat disconcerting sense of malicious glee.  She had had power over someone briefly: it was a second-hand power derived from someone else, not hers by her own right – but could one grow so used to it over time they would no longer see the wrong of it?  Was that what Jasnah had been privileged with, and exposed to, her whole life, as the daughter and sister of Kings?  It would explain a great many things.

 She picked up her pencil and started sketching.  And because she was feeling frivolous and aware that Kaladin had been looking at her drawings and was probably eyeing her surreptitiously right now, she almost wanted to dare him to keep looking.  So in her current contrary mood, she drew a picture of Adolin in highland dress and wearing the McValam tartan. 

 They rode in silence for fifteen more minutes, and then the carriage slowed, and there was a tap on the roof.  Adolin sat up; he had been resting his head against the inside of the door and the back of his hair stood up in an oddly endearing blond tuft.  

 “It’s the church – it’s on the edge of the village, so your stop came first.  Shall I walk you out?” he offered.

 “No thank you, it’s quite all right – you must be expected in the village and the rain has delayed you already – I could not delay you further,” Shallan said.

 “Let them wait: am I not a Duke?  And you have no umbrella; – I insist, please, there would be no greater pleasure.” 

 Then he smiled.  It was a beautiful smile, energetic and almost infectious, and in the dreary greyness of the day and the troubled greyness of her recent thoughts, Shallan was reminded that there were people who weren’t all like Jasnah or Kaladin: people who made her uncomfortably aware that there were parts of her that could never, ever be acknowledged as a credit to her character.  Adolin was different.  And the smile in front of her was much better in person than the drawn Adolin in her sketchbook; her drawing did not at all do him proper justice.  She must remember what it looked like, or else try to see it again…

 “Then if you insist, I thank you, truly.”

The carriage door was opened; Adolin stepped out first, opening the umbrella.  Shallan pulled her tartan over her shoulders, then took his arm; he led her up the path to the front door of the church.  When they arrived and stood under the dripping veranda of the entryway, he paused.

 “I know Kaladin and you find it hard to see eye to eye on things,” he began.

 “We see eye to neck, if you hadn’t noticed.   When I see him, I want to embrace him … by the throat,” remarked Shallan.

 Adolin chuckled as he shook out his umbrella.   “He is not a bad person, not really.  He just finds it difficult to trust new people, I think.  When I first met him, he was curt with me for some time.”

“What happened to change that?”

 “He saved my life.  And the life of my father.  Eventually my brother’s too.  I was – I am – grateful and indebted to him, and I tried to show him, in what little way I could.  Who would have thought that a Duke could have a debt he considers impossible to repay,” said Adolin, thoughtful.

 Shallan frowned for a moment, then laughed.  “So must I save _his_ life to win his approval?  And here I thought _you_ were courting _me_ , rather than I courting _him_!”

 Adolin grinned and ducked his head bashfully; the tuft of hair still stuck out from the back and he hadn’t noticed.  “Am I courting you now?  Not just friendly acquaintances?”

 “Why not?  Yes!  Just don’t tell Jasnah or she will have the wedding planned for the end of the month.  From introduction to courting in a single day; Jasnah would predict nothing less than our being settled with a babe on the way by the end of the year,” said Shallan.

 This last comment made Adolin flush; he looked away in embarrassment, a dazed smile on his face.  Shallan had never considered her own red-faced blushing as attractive in the least; in Adolin it was charmingly delightful.  Shallan was tempted to say deliberately outrageous things as often as possible, now that she saw it provoked such a darling response.   But then, regrettably, the conversation would never get anywhere.  Perhaps, though, it was not such a bad thing.

 She patted him on the arm.  “Don’t worry, I won’t provoke Kaladin unnecessarily.  He seems to easily manage producing ire in plenty, without my intervention.”

 Adolin cleared his throat, then said, “I would very much like to see all of us amiably acquainted, if not friends.  It would elevate my spirits a great deal if that were to be so.”

 Shallan looked up at him, her hand still on his arm.  “I will try to be civil.  For you.  Now, mustn’t you get back to the carriage?”

 His head jerked back to look at the carriage.  The curtain over the window twitched, then lay still. 

 “That is all I ask, thank you.  I will send the carriage to drive you to the village for luncheon; just wait here when you have finished your devotions and the coachman will see you from the road.”

 He took her right hand, then kissed the back of it.  This time it was not the air he kissed; his lips gently brushed her flesh, warm on her rain-chilled skin. 

 “Good day, Shallan,” said he; he withdrew and then the umbrella was struck open and he was off down the road; there came a crack of the driver’s whip and a whinny of horses and soon the carriage was crunching over the gravel to Courtlea proper, leaving Shallan standing on the doorstep of the village church. 

 It suddenly occurred to her: of all the instances where a woman could be left abandoned and staring apprehensively at the threshold to a church, this would probably be the least exciting.  

 She grasped the iron ring on the door, swung it open, and stepped inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shallan likes the rain. Foggy days and grey skies make her think of princess castles, make her creative and remind her of home.  
> Shallan's boots - the maid thinks they're labourers boots, and they are. Jane Austen's heroines wore light boots made from cotton or the skin of baby goats and cows, which were fine for walking on sunny days but too fragile for off-roading on rainy ones.  
> Kaladin is reading the AU version of the medical journal The Lancet. I used a parody because Issue 1 of The Lancet didn’t come out until the 1820’s. Adolin is reading a clothing pattern catalogue.  
> The portrait of Kaladin is from the earlier post Shallan’s Sketchbook #3.  
> “We see eye to neck” – reference to Kaladin and Shallan’s height difference.  
> “He saved my life” – happened while the Kholin regiments and Kaladin were in Ireland for the Vengeance Pact war  
> Adolin is as blushy and awkward around forward girls as he is in the real SA. I write him as “pure” and inexperienced in that way if you know what I mean.  
> Yes, Kaladin was watching from the window.  
> “Instances where a woman could be left abandoned” – is this foreshadowing being left on the altar? Who knows.


	6. VI

 The interior of the church was dim and cool, and surprisingly dry.  The door entered into a vestibule with rush mats on the floors for visitors to wipe their feet; by the right-hand wall there was a cloakroom area with coat hooks in rows, an umbrella stand, and a metal boot grate.  There were old-fashioned iron torch sconces set into the stone of the wall, but no torches; polished tin chimney lamps hung from them by their handles to give off a steady yellow light.

 There was a second door that opened into the nave.  Shallan drew the fold of tartan off her head respectfully as she stepped into the main body of the church – it arched overhead in a row of pointed vaults; she almost felt as if she had been swallowed by a great beast of monstrous proportions: the grey-white stone eerily resembled the curving parallels of the whales’ ribs that she had seen displayed at Middlefests in her youth. 

 She walked hesitantly through the empty church, passing rows of pews.  She was nervous, unprepared to explain away her presence if confronted, and her mind jittered into tangents.  Whales’ ribs … she had used whale oil to fill the lamps of home when she sketched at night.  It had a strange and unpleasant smell compared to the more neutral naphtha that the Kholins used, but it was much cheaper: whaling was good business in Scotland; many a Scottish man who found that a living could not be earned by the plough took to the sea in hard times … Jushu had once almost been crimped by a crooked boarding master after a number of imprudent wagers…

 She had reached the end of the church.  There was an altar ahead, and a towering window of stained glass set in a leaden frame lay behind it; she presumed that when an Ardent led the village prayers, the window would illuminate him with Almighty’s Grace and Light.  The window depicted the Almighty in His aspect of benevolence; His hands were open in a pose of benediction. 

 There was a small door by the side of the altar: this must be where the Ardents entered and exited for the service, and led to the private wing containing their personal cells and communal refectory.  She pulled the ring handle on the door.  It was not locked.  Well, the Ardents lived on the patronage of the Duke, and she, with her attachments to both Jasnah and Adolin, could be arguably recognised as a Kholin by association.  So it was not so odd for her to poke around this church, when she might very well become its lady benefactress one day.

 With this thought in mind, she straightened her shoulders as she had been taught from the many painful lessons of Madame Tyn’s, and strode through, head held high. 

  _Project confidence._

  _If this will be yours one day, you must act like it is already.  And when it is truly yours, then they will never be able to take it away._

 The inner corridor was silent; she heard the shushing movement of slippered feet somewhere in the distance, but this hallway was empty.  There were two doors at the end of the hallway.  One was sturdy with iron crossbars over the wood and a rush mat on the floor in front; the other was of simple wood with a brass nameplate.

 The door opened, and a young man with the shaved head and square beard of the Ardentry stepped out.  He stopped short at seeing Shallan, whose red hair made unruly by the damp marked her as definitely not a Sister of any Order. 

 “Miss,” he said firmly but politely, “requests for Elevations and personal guidance should be made through the office around the side. This area is for staff only.  There is the exit if you are lost.”  He gestured pointedly to the crossbarred door on the left.

 “I am come from the House – a personal guest, if you will,” said Shallan, with as much cold authority as she could muster.  She was trying to imagine Jasnah in her place – Jasnah would not meekly go where she was told if she wanted otherwise.  “I do not seek personal guidance.  I seek legal counsel, of a private nature.”

 The Ardent looked her up and down.  He was tall, with blue eyes and a straight nose set on an evenly-featured face.  Shallan had always thought that it was men and women with no other recourse who took to the Order; all one had to do was read from a book once a week in front of an audience and listen to prayers now and then, and one was guaranteed food and lodging by a patron for the rest of their life.  It was not a life of luxury – unless one managed to find the rare and sought-after patron who was pious, wealthy, _and_ generous.  But it was a life better than others if one could not plough soil or waves; Shallan had seen a number of returned soldiers and cripples among the Ardentry back home.

 This Ardent glanced at her blue silk dress, slightly rain-spotted, with its whimsically patterned silk-floss embroidery; the hem of her lower petticoats thankfully covered her walking boots.  He took in her straight-backed posture and the hands she had clasped demurely in front of her: they were soft and pale hands, freckled over the back, but lacking the imperfections of red blotchy chapping and healed burn scars of any woman who had ever in her life washed laundry or cooked a meal.

 He seemed to accept her word – or was not inclined to quarrel – for he knocked on the door with the nameplate.  Two sharp raps were followed by his saying loudly:  “Brother Kadash, there’s a Lady from the House to see you.”

 After a minute, she heard a scraping sound from behind the door, then it opened, and a stern looking man with a shaved head peeped out.

 “What’s this about a Lady?”

 Shallan gave a shallow curtsey of respect.  Ardents were not formally on the social ranking at all; you were supposed to ignore their past status and treat them as equals, as they were the Almighty’s secular representatives, and the Almighty was beyond such mundanities.  But this man was the head Ardent: he held second-hand power, but plenty of it – and it paid to be cautious with those who could make much trouble even if they could not directly touch you.

 “There is a legal matter I should like to discuss in private,” she said, looking him in the eye.  Eye contact was important. She did not glance to the side to observe the younger Ardent’s reaction.

 “Then come in, please, Miss,” said Brother Kadash.

 He opened the door for her, waved his hand at the seat in front of his desk, and the door was closed.  She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply. Jasnah analysed situations and deduced the best plan; Madame Tyn relied on variety: she had a catalogue of responses prepared for anything.  Shallan had always wanted to emulate both but had the skills and experience of neither.  She would have to think quickly, then.  Her eyes opened as Brother Kadash found his seat and placed his hands, fingers twined lattice-like, on the desk.

 “You wanted to speak of matters legal and private?” he asked.

 “Yes.  Um,” said Shallan, thinking furiously.  “I am Scottish, you see, and I have pledged my allegiance to a Clan Chief – ah, Duke, I think, in Anglethi equivalence.”

 “…And?”  Brother Kadash smiled benignly.  “If you are looking for an expert in Scottish law, perhaps an Anglethi village church will be less useful to you than a hired solicitor in the City.  If you come from the House, you will of course have the means available to do so.”

 Shallan reddened – he was subtly implying that she wasting his time – and tried to control the trembling of her shaking hands; she straightened the drape of the tartan shawl on her shoulders.  “I was rather inquiring how an allegiance to one Duke would stand in the event of a marriage to another.  One surely cannot have two lords and two House loyalties, can they?”

 “Ah,” said Kadash with a knowing smile.  “A Lady from the House indeed, then.  To answer your question: allegiances are divided and defined during the writing of the marriage contract.  Usually one person – in most cases, the bride – relinquishes her loyalties and joins her husband’s House.  But in the case where the partners are both high in precedence in their respective Houses, there may be an exception made for a dual allegiance – for the purpose of a military alliance or a claim on the union’s children in favour of either House upon their majority.  But that is for high-profile marriages worked out on a case-by-case basis by the Ardents in the City court – not my jurisdiction at all.  Did that answer your question, my lady?”

  _… Joins her husband’s house…_

 She pulled the tartan closer, twisting the ends of it in her lap.  She felt anxious now; she could not name the exact reason for it, but her breath felt like it was drawn spiralling downward with leaden unease.  The tartan smelled faintly of lavender … _Malise, her step-mother..._

 “How can a marriage contract be broken?” she suddenly asked.  She regretted the question almost immediately: it was too private – one should only ask such from their own privately hired solicitor, preferably a retainer who was sworn to their confidence – and never an Ardent who was beholden to his own patron.

 “Marriage contracts were not made to be broken.”  His reply was firm and neutral; she could not tell if he disapproved or not.

 “Exceptions can always be found,” said Shallan.  She kept her own voice suitably indifferent.

 “For high-profile marriages, there is usually leverage enough to include specific terms that would nullify a contract if they are not fulfilled.   _We_ do not approve of secular considerations in nullifying marriage, but,” he sniffed, “the Ardentry must be pragmatic.  Annulments can be granted upon proof of treason, barrenness, infidelity, or inability to provide minimum maintenance.  But only if the original contract stipulated a ‘good conduct’ clause.  Will that be all, my lady?”

  _Treason_ , she thought.  _Oh, Malise, we were too late for you…_

 “There is one other thing,” Shallan said.  The whole reason for the visit, which she had forgotten about until now.  “When was this church built?  I know many churches were built from the stones of more primitive temples of worship, either on the same site or moved to be closer to a village.  Was it the case for this one?”

 Brother Kadash’s twined fingers untwined themselves, his fingers tapped the desktop in surprise.  “That is a somewhat unexpected deviation, my lady.”

 “Cultural and historic matters interest me.  I wholeheartedly _support_ the preservation of sites of … _local_ importance.”  She met his eyes and inclined her head in a meaningful way. 

 “Ah, yes,” said Brother Kadash, and a genuine smile flitted across his face.  “Such matters _deserve_ attention. _Ahem_.  Of course.   This church was built when Nodadon II … or was it IV?  I am not quite sure actually – built Kholinar Court as a country hunting lodge away from the City.  The village was established to support the House and grounds, so it was decided that there must be a church for the use of the villagers and the House residents.  That is why we are on the very edge of Courtlea.”

 “So there was no original pre-Vorin temple?”  She hoped she did not appear too insistent.  Jasnah had told her to conduct inquiries without raising interest; the organisations who had assassinated her father the King were likely interested in the same information.

 Brother Kadash frowned.  “Not this site, no.  This church was built new as the House was.  It is definitely a Vorin church by its architecture – no re-dedicated temples would be fit for a King, you see.  But…”

 “…Yes?”

 “There may have been some primitive structures in the area, used before and during the construction of the House – when this area was just woodland with isolated crofts.  In fact, their location may be reported in maps from a survey fifty years ago.  We haven’t any newer surveys than that, I’m afraid: the woodlands around the House estates are a game park reserved for the Duke’s disposal.  The current Duke is not interested in hunting and the previous one was always too busy for such diversions.”

 “Those maps would be wonderfully useful,” Shallan said, delighted.  “Would it be possible to borrow a copy of the surveys?  They will be returned in a timely manner, I promise – I will have a copy made immediately.”

 “It would please me to treat a generous lady such as yourself with generosity, my lady,” said Kadash.  His eyebrows drew up and down suggestively.

  _Blessed Heralds, he lays it on thick_ , thought Shallan.  “Such generosity will not go forgotten.”

 “Then I shall send a Brother to fetch them for you.  Just a moment,” he said, as he stood and tugged at a rope to the right of his desk.  It bounced up and down on a pulley system built into wall for a few moments, then stilled.  A minute later, there was a knock at the door.  Kadash went to open it; Shallan heard a whispered conversation and then there were retreating footsteps.  He returned to his desk and sat down.

 “You and our good Duke, then…?” said Brother Kadash, casting for a response to fill the silence.

 A light-handed interrogation, then; Shallan was used to this sort of “conversation” from Jasnah, who was always eager for information but never liked to look less than informed.

 “We have an … understanding.  No contracts have been drawn as yet, hence the questions.  Thank you for that, it may prove invaluable,” said Shallan, smiling at him and tucking of stray strand of hair behind her hear.  “I am a personal guest at the House currently; if there are any more papers you find relevant to my line of investigation, they would be greatly appreciated if sent on.”

 Kadash looked amused.  “A personal guest, hah, the others never got that far—”

 There came a knock, and the door opened.  The young Ardent again, with a thick envelope closed with strings tucked under one arm.  He looked at Brother Kadash and then at Shallan, and his eyes narrowed.

 “I have the maps,” said the Ardent.  He approached the desk and offered them to Brother Kadash.

 “For the lady, Kabsal,” directed Kadash.

 The young Ardent looked at Shallan, and hesitated.  She thought he was going to run; she had seen fear and hesitation like that in a young man’s eyes before, once…

 He offered the maps to Shallan; she took them before he could change his mind.  She stood.

 “Thank you, Brother Kadash, Brother Kabsal.  You have been most helpful to-day; I am pleased to make your acquaintance, truly.  These maps will be returned safe and sound, have no worry.”  Shallan nodded to them, and slipped the envelope into her satchel, doing up the side buckle.  It barely fit.  “A church is the centre of the village … well, not this village, perhaps – but a fine one like this ought not be neglected.  Good day, gentlemen, I must take my leave.”

 She curtsied, they inclined their heads respectfully to her – Ardents were not expected to bow in court fashion.  Kabsal held the door open and followed her into the hallway. 

 “You must go around the side entrance to the office when you call on Brother Kadash, Lady,” he said, as he opened the door leading to the nave. “Those found wandering where they are unwanted are … unwelcome.”

 “Thank you.  I shall make a note of it,” Shallan replied, noncommittally.  She stepped through, and the door closed behind her with a heavy thunk.  She thought she heard the grating sound of bolts sliding home.  What a strange man – it was almost as if he did not want her to have the maps, and was irritated that she had managed to get them.

 The nave of the church was still empty.  It was too large to be lit by chimney lamps except when an Ardent was leading the weekly prayer – when the Family was represented and the village was in attendance.  There were two lamps on either side of the altar.  Most of the light came from the stained glass window: soft and grey light that was diffused by the soft grey rainclouds outside, then filtered through the window design; it was fashioned of alternating panes of clear and opaque glass. 

 She stepped up to the altar and inspected the base of the window:  the very bottom frame of it started at head height, and there was an inscription carved in an antiquated script into the row of stones below – it was hard to read and half of it had been eroded into illegibility. 

 “Perpetual … something … Tanavast bestowed Jezerezeh with his … honour and wisdom?  Dignity and gravity combined something something Stormfather; may the Light of his Grace stand solid against the … something,” she read.  She pulled out her sketchbook and wrote it down, then sat down on the front pew closest to the altar; she opened her pencil box and started copying the design of the window.  To see the top of it, she had to crane her head so far that the back of it touched the backrest of the pew.

 It was peaceful in the church, silent and still with the occasional hush-hushing of draughts along the rows of half-lit pews.  The high arched vaults of the stone beast’s stomach did not seem so oppressive now to Shallan, whose mood had vastly improved after completing her task with triumph.  She sketched peacefully, relaxing into a pleasant art-induced reverie while she shaped and shaded the many stained glass panels in white chalk and grey charcoal.  All alone – just she and the Almighty in an empty hall that seemed now a great protector rather than monster:  it held her safe against the cold rain and cold people of the outside world.

 

***

 

 Shallan was filling in the last details of her drawing now; she roughly sketched the stones that bordered the lead frame which held the glass panes of the window.   Shading now.  She turned to her pencil box, picking through the double layered compartment for the string wrapped lead-clay pencil stick, when she saw that she was not as alone as she had thought.  There was a person in the back, sitting on the pew three rows away from the door. 

 She did not turn her head around; staring was unseemly and perhaps it was merely some village man who wanted a spot of quiet out of the rain.  She dug through the wooden pencil box, sifting through nubs of chalk that really ought to be thrown out once they had become too small to comfortably hold; she peeked sideways through a veil of hair.  It was a man: he was sitting; he was head and shoulders above the end of the backrest.  Was that—? 

 The man had hair that hung loose to his shoulders – not tied in a tail.  An umbrella leaned against the bench seat of the pew, its handle presented vertically.  A man with an umbrella would not need to enter a church to avoid being rain-soaked. 

 Of course it was Kaladin.  

 There were, and there always would be people in the world who appeared when you least expected them.  They were such people as an inquisitive widowed neighbour who would mysteriously happen to be in the area when she saw a stranger’s coach in your drive, or a delivery boy from the village who brought up a side of ham that had been forgotten from the butcher’s cart earlier that morning.  There would also be those persons whose appearance and presence you least wanted, and would go to some trouble to avoid.    On very rare occasions, there would be an intersection of the groups; one was usually lucky enough to encounter only one or two such people in his or her lifetime. 

 Kaladin, naturally, found his way with unsurprising ease into that lattermost category – to Shallan’s dismay.

 She finished her drawing and closed the sketchbook with a snap.  The chalks went back into the box, the lid was slid into its groove and the band around it was secured.  Both the box and the book were stuffed into the satchel atop the envelope of maps.  Shallan rose.

 Kaladin did not raise his bowed head until Shallan’s shadow fell over him.  He sighed a great heaving sigh of long sufferance and opened his eyes. 

 “What are you doing here?” Shallan demanded.

 “I came for presumably the same reason why you are here.  To pray,” he said.  Kaladin straightened from his bowed posture, then leaned back against the pew; he laid his arm against the top of the backrest and cocked his head.  His eyes swept across her impudently, almost as if he were daring her to contradict him.

 “What have you to pray for, pray tell?”

 “Why should I not be allowed to pray?”

 “If you do indeed have a soul – its existence is quite contrary to my expectations, of course – I am absolutely certain that the Almighty will be hard-pressed to find it, let alone want it.  If it can be found at all.”

 Kaladin’s dark brows drew together, his lips pressed together thinly.  “My soul’s existence is irrelevant; I am here to pray for my brother’s.”

 “The Almighty,” Shallan said, “is not a relay service for those too frugal to hire a courier.  You ought to inform him to pray for his own.”

 He stared into her eyes.  They were not angry eyes, as Shallan had thought when she had seen them for the first time.  They contained emotion that did not show on his face, but it was not anger – it was something else, darker than that.  Perhaps there was a jaded spirit in there that had once been broken into pieces, then reformed out of sheer dogged spite and the single-minded regret of leaving affairs unfinished.  That was not impossible: Shallan had seen shades of this in the looking glass before.  She was not afraid of it.  She did not look away.  He was not her father.

 “The Almighty is the only messenger I have.  My brother is dead.”

 There was a silence.  It was an awkward, desperate silence, and Shallan’s immediate instinct was to draw on levity, which she ignored with some difficulty.  Because in that slow and spreading silence, she recognised something in him that was bitterly familiar to her, and for this one odd moment, she felt a pang of … empathy.  The last time she had found in other persons such mutual sentiment was the day she had left Loch Davar. 

 “I...” she said slowly, not wanting to get it wrong.  How was it that she could easily find words to say when her intention was to say something that meant nothing, and yet now she struggled for words to describe something that was plain and unadorned truth?  “I am sorry.  Truly.  If it means anything, I wanted to pray for my own brother; he has been missing and presumed dead for near two years now.”

 “It doesn’t,” said Kaladin shortly.  “Are you quite finished here?”

 “Yes.”

 “I am to collect you for the village, then.  The carriage is waiting.”

 He rose to his feet and picked up his umbrella.  He towered over her, a little more than a full head taller, and Shallan could see a few stray unshaven hairs on the underside of his jaw.  He left the nave, his legs taking long strides that Shallan could not match.  He did not wait for her.  Upon Shallan’s reaching the vestibule, she saw the front door of the church swing shut.  Kaladin, that insufferable creature, had not waited to hold the door open as any gentleman ought.  He had not even offered to share the umbrella. 

  _Storming Kaladin, storming Jasnah…_

 Grumbling, Shallan pulled the tartan shawl up over her shoulders and draped it over her head as a makeshift hood.   Wearing one’s tartan shawl or kilt over the head was a highland tradition, and had been common until umbrellas had stopped being rare.  A tartan kept one warm in wet winters – the thick wool held heat marvellously when one layered their clothing just so – but it did not do much, unfortunately, against the prospect of getting wet.  She held the pouch of the satchel in her arms and wrapped the ends of tartan around it.  Then she pulled the door open with a heave and stepped into the damp and misted air of Courtlea.

 It was past noon, she thought, scanning the sky.  It was still raining; water trickled off the eaves of the veranda and puddled into the smallest dips in the path, turning shallow ruts into glassy lines of reflected grey-white.   It would have been more beautiful, thought Shallan, through a window. 

 The blue-painted carriage was ten yards away, the matched pair jerking at the reins in their impatience to return to their stable.  She took a deep breath, exhaled loudly, and ran for it.  It was a good idea that she had worn her heavy walking boots.   She had tried to skirt the deepest puddles, but the ground was wet and sometimes a puddle was better trod through – better than attempting a running start on a muddy path in order to leap it: she would rather not slip in the mud in front of Kaladin, nor would it do to have Adolin see her covered head to toe in mud for luncheon.

 She made it to the carriage; she scrabbled at the door for a second; her clumsy wool wrapped fingers found the handle and pulled the door open.  She flung herself into the seat and, reaching out, slammed the door closed.  The carriage started moving immediately.

 Shallan sighed in relief and realised she was sharing the same padded seat as Kaladin.  In fact, she had thrown herself in so vigorously that she was now pressed against him; he was studying the roof above his head with the strained tolerance of silent aggravation.  

 She cleared her throat and untucked her shawl with cold fingers.  The satchel was safe and dry now; she slid to the opposite end of the seat and placed the satchel between them to prevent any more accidental contact.  That was when she noticed the smell.

 It was a smell that wafted upward.  She hadn’t noticed it when the door had been opened; now it was closed and there was nowhere for it to go in the closed cabin.  It spread through the carriage with distressing familiarity – she thought she knew what it was, to her great consternation.

 “What is that Heralds-cursed smell?” she asked.  She needed to be certain.

 “Ether,” replied Kaladin after a while.  “I bought a few bottles in the village; it makes a useful analgesic.”

 “The vapours are awfully strong – my nostrils are being singed just breathing it.”                

 “The stoppers are poorly moulded.  I plan to decant them into better bottles when we return to the House.”

 “Of course.”

 Shallan turned away to the window.  The glass was starting to fog with the warmth of their breath; water condensed in beaded droplets on the edges of the window frame.  She drew a hand across the glass and saw misted fields and paddock and the occasional building; trees in the near distance were wreathed in white.  Well, it did not seem likely she would find much worthwhile conversation with Kaladin, and the view from the window was of no particular interest.  She unbuckled the strap on her satchel and with some difficulty, tugged out her sketchbook.  It was packed tightly in with the thick envelope she had gotten from Brother Kadash earlier; she had considered getting a larger bag whilst in Kharbranth with Jasnah, but there was only so large one could go before a bag became uncomfortably unwieldy – it rather negated the convenience of being able to carry more in the first place.

 The carriage, as it was during the ride from the House, was becoming warm now; it was drying the damp tartan across her shoulders, but that was making the uncomfortable humidity worse.  Shallan opened the sketchbook and read through her notes.  She had copied the wall inscription under the stained glass window, and written her thoughts about it.  Who was the Stormfather?  She had seen it written in some books of folk legends and collected bards’ tales; Jasnah had gathered sources from a variety of examples of pre-Vorin cultural history; she thought it relevant for their research.

 But, now, for some reason, her mind was moving more sluggishly than normal.  Thoughts seemed to flow from one to the next like treacle, when normally links of association flashed by in an instant for her; it was most perplexing.  Why was it happening?

 Wait…

_It was the ether._

 Shallan knew that smell, the singeing nostrils, and the hairs inside feeling as if they were shriveling up like the earthworms and snails Balat played with in the garden when he thought they weren’t looking.

 She closed her eyes, breathing and remembering.

 Ether was originally something privileged young men used for amusement in their parlours – the ether brought on peculiar trances and dreams to some, on some others it brought simple unconsciousness.  What it had in common for everyone who used it was that it took people away from who they were.  It was amusing for these dandies to watch each other in turn take a light dosage and lapse into making a series of bizarre faces; sometimes they spoke in tongues.  That was probably where Jushu had found out about it.  Eventually, the production of it became more efficient and the prices for ether fell – now those of lower class and lesser means could afford to experiment with it, and they did so.  Larger doses of inhaled vapours were found to make the dreaming unconsciousness last longer; as did drinking the distilled liquid.

 The first time Jushu had bought ether for himself, he hid it from them and used it in his own room, alone.  That was not what one did:  even the carefree dandies were not so careless as to frolic alone.  Jushu did not show up for dinner that evening – Father had sent a maid to knock on his door but he did not come down.  They had dinner without him.  Shallan had gone up to his room afterward, and found that the door handle would not turn: he had placed a chair under it to hold it closed, and there was no response from inside to her crying and beating her fists and begging him to open it and to come out.  She had called for Wikim, who removed the door hinges and together they found him dreaming those unnatural ether dreams on the floor, a blanket over his head.  Under the blanket they found a dampened kerchief pressed over his nose and mouth, from which arose that recognisable burning scent of ether fumes.

 They were holding his hands when he awoke.  She had asked him why he did it and he told them that was what people did when they found their lives painfully tiresome.  Shallan understood; she understood all too well, and she had made Jushu promise never to do it alone, and never outside the safety of the house.  Over the following months, Balat had taken Jushu up on his offer to drift with him; they did it together a few times, and with Wikim once.  Shallan had refused each time.  Jushu stopped offering.

 So it was always Shallan who sat on the chair by the bed; Jushu had stopped using it to prop the door closed.  Shallan was the one who set and watched the hourglass and changed the kerchiefs from the high starting dosage to induce immediate sleep, to progressively smaller doses of ether mixed with water to draw out the dreams and wake him gradually.  Once she had learned how the doses worked, and Jushu trusted the surety of her hands to measure it right each time, she began lowering the doses without telling him, and reading to him while he was in drift.

 She supposed it worked; he asked for ether less frequently and asked to be read to more.  But the smell of ether was something she would never forget.

 …It reminded her of home.  Was that so terrible to admit?

 It was a comfort to her, a perverse comfort to be sure, but when she placed the kerchief over Jushu’s nose, or Balat’s, she was bringing them a temporary peace.  It was the short-lived satisfaction of worrying an itching scab and risking a scar, but Shallan had very little with which to help her dear brothers; ether was one of the few things that took them away from who and where they were, without hurting anyone in the process.  It brought no happiness – but it could at least manage gratification.

 Her thoughts slowed.  If it had been treacle before, now it was … frozen treacle?  She could not think of any droll metaphor at the moment, how very unusual.  Was this what ether drifting felt like?

 The sketchbook fell out of her hands.  Her body felt monumentally heavy – as if fatigue were weighing down flesh and bone alike, fatigue reaching down to her very soul; it took more effort than she could summon to twitch a finger.  She leaned back and back and back.  There was warmth; she felt the scratch of wool against her face; she pressed against it.  It was wool, wool like a tartan, beautiful beautiful tartans – green and yellow and white and black – McValam tartans all in a row … a row of tartans like the day her father married Malise and they thought she could replace Mother in his mind and make him all better, and everything would return to how it used to be.

 And he did get better, and Malise had a baby, and Shallan had a wonderful baby sister with blue eyes and red hair and a pretty toothless smile, and a wonderful family who loved her as they loved each other…

 

 ***

 

 The carriage door opened; cold damp air swept the ether vapours out of the warm closeness of the cabin’s interior.  But Shallan still had ether vapours inside of her, where they couldn’t be reached – where she didn’t want them to be reached; she was still clinging, shamefully and desperately, clinging to the drift.

 “—Shallan, Kal, there you are!  I am perfectly famished; one might reasonably think it would take less than forty-nine years to sign a forty-nine year contract, but it was a close thing—”

 Shallan opened her eyes at the beautiful voice of the beautiful young man whose hair looked like a bee’s bottom – yes, that’s what it looked like – who stood at the open door.  

 She, through bleary eyes, saw Kaladin with her sketchbook guiltily open in his lap, open to her – lovingly detailed, she could say it now without second thought, how very strange – portrait of him.  She found that she was pressed against him, slumped on the cushioned seat too, but mostly against him.  She was leaning heavily on his shoulder, her face on the wool of his coat.  There was a line of wet drool down the coat’s shoulder and drool growing cool on her cheek.   

 The beautiful Duke said, smiling:  “My heavens – it looks like you two have had rather an eventful morning!”  His eyes darted from Kaladin to her and back.

 Kaladin cleared his throat and slowly closed the sketchbook.  He put it down on the empty seat opposite him.

 “Shallan here had promised earlier to show me her etchings,” he said.  “Shallan?”

 “ _Nuuuuuughhh_ ,” was all she could say.  That was witty and clever, wasn’t it?   She nuzzled his shoulder.  It hardly mattered that she was smearing drool over her face and his coat.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history of whaling in Scotland is pretty period accurate here. Sailing was a tough job and sailors often jumped ship when they hit port. For ships to have enough men to sail and whale, there were people who would kidnap, or "press gang" men into service. Once they beat you up and stole your clothes and wallet, and you woke up on a ship, there was no proof that you had rich parents. I thought it was a realistic way to explain a noble boy being enslaved.  
> “Any woman who had ever in her life washed laundry or cooked a meal.” – working women washed with lye soap and used metal boxes with fire inside to cook their food. By the time a woman reached marriage age, you could probably tell what class she was just by looking at her skin.  
> Ardents in the real SA wrote and approved betrothal and marriage contracts. However, in this AU, secular lawyers also exist. Vorin churches look like Gothic churches to fit the setting.  
> Shallan is too nearsighted to realise that a proof of treason would have saved Malise but ruined the Davar children. The Loch Davar estate would have gone to Elhokar as forfeit. It is possible that Malise knew and refused to turn in Lin Davar funding rebels for this reason.  
> Shallan will tolerate Adolin’s wandering eye just in case she needs to use “infidelity” as a reason to annul a marriage.  
> Yes, Kabsal is interested in the information that Shallan is after. He is not very nice on first impression, because in this AU Shallan is too interested in Adolin for a hot priest to attract her. And really, why make it a love square when Kaladin has already taken the role of "boy with secrets".
> 
> Backstory: (since it will never be explained directly)  
> Tien and Heleran both died in Ireland. Heleran was part of a guerilla group that set mines and blew things up. Tien lied about his age to enlist and when Kaladin found out he sent letters to the army but they replied with canned "There's nothing we can do" responses. Kaladin joined as a medic as soon as he finished school in Kharbranth and looked for Tien, who had travelled to a different town to sign under a fake name. Tien's noob unit was sent as cannon fodder to recon a dangerzone area and he was killed because the officers didn't want to waste trained veterans as mine scouters. Kaladin went crazy for a while afterwards and became a guerilla hunter volunteering on risky missions, where he eventually killed Heleran and saved the Kholins.
> 
> Ether was discovered in the late 1700's and was used for surgery in the 1800's, and then people found out how useful it was at making you feel weird when you breathed a little of it at a time, or drank it. In the 1830's "ether frolic" parties were popular. In this AU, I refer to gentlemen using low doses for party entertainment as a "frolic", like people do with helium balloons today. People using higher doses I call "drifting" in this story.  
> Shallan drifts on ether but Kaladin doesn't. She is smaller physically, and closer to the floor - the bottles were stored under the seat. Kaladin is used to the vapours and Shallan hasn't had anything to do with it for at least a year. When she was pouring for Jushu she made sure that everything was well-ventilated so she had no idea why it was happening in the carriage. She was breathing in the smell and thought that everything would be fine since she didn't have a rag on her nose ... anyways, don't try it at home, kids.  
> Did Kaladin know what would happen beforehand? He probably considered it, but cared more about getting some painkillers than Shallan's welfare. And yes, he looked at the other pictures and read the notes in her sketchbook.
> 
> "Show me her etchings" - 1890's line originally, but it works here. It originally referred to a man inviting a woman to listen to his gramophone, look at his Japanese calligraphy, or view his etchings, or watch his Netflix. Kaladin likes to snark too.


	7. VII

 Shallan was delirious when Adolin carried her into the screened off private dining alcoves of The Sign of the White Boar.  She vaguely remembered being held, limbs sprawling awkwardly, in his arms – she felt immensely heavy, yet somehow simultaneously wrung out and empty.  Adolin bore her weight with ease; impressions of her surroundings flashed by disjointedly, one after the other: smooth skin against smooth skin, her cheek against his neck, cologne that smelled of orange pith mixed with the Kharbranth spice markets, red hair against striped blond.  Soft and indistinct they were, these blurred combinations of colour and sound; the dullness of sensation was as if she were face-down in the bathtub screaming and screaming in a way that could not be heard.

 Her weary mind feebly tried to understand, to analyse, to conclude, but such exertion was beyond her; it was as if her mind and her body were now divorced from each other, and both of them were completely removed of her.  So she rested her head on Adolin’s shoulder and watched with a queer sense of complete apathy as a scene unfolded in the inn.

 The scrape of chairs as the guests and patrons stood for the Duke as he burst through the door, only to see that he held a swooning lady in his arms.  The Duke’s physician, calling for blankets and warmed bricks and hot tea.  The noise and bustle of a busy establishment drawn to sudden stillness and then returning to action with twice the volume. Shallan watched; she would have felt bemused if she could feel anything more than indifference.

 The warmth of the Duke’s body was all too quickly withdrawn; she was settled, lolling, on a chair and folding screens were dragged all around. Her tartan was placed on her lap; a man’s overcoat was draped over her shoulders.  She watched everything, was impassive to everything.  Until Kaladin waved a small phial filled with white crystals under her nose. It burned worse than ether vapours.

  _Oh.  Ether vapours._

 White crystals – spirits of hartshorn.  The leaden fatigue in her limbs remained, but she regained awareness and clarity.  She could understand speech now, instead of seeing moving mouths and hearing syllables: now she could link them together and comprehend their meaning.

 “Shallan? Miss Davar?” she heard.  Kaladin was in the chair in front of her, looking at her face. He had one scarred hand on her wrist, feeling for her pulse.  The other held the phial of smelling salts.

 “Oh. It’s you,” said Shallan.  It seemed appropriate.  “You could have _asked_ to see my sketches.”

 He dropped her hand.  He seemed about to say something nasty, but then thought better of it; he relaxed and leaned back in his chair.

 “You would have refused,” he replied, simply.

 “You … are right,” said Shallan finally.  She couldn’t think of anything better to say.  The disinterested lethargy was retreating to the edges – she was functional now, if rather sluggish in her cognitive reflexes.

 “I endeavour to make it a habit."  Kaladin hadn’t lost anything of his penchant for sarcasm, even if she had.

 “Why did you do it, then?”

 “It is rare to encounter a person who possesses such skill and eye.  Every man can destroy, most can reproduce, but the ability to create beauty is rare.” He paused for a moment, then looked away.  “You drew my portrait: seeing it reminded me of an artist who took my likeness … three or four years ago.”

 It was a long speech for a usually taciturn man.  It seemed this subject held great significance to him – perhaps she could tease it out of him.

 “Did you knock him senseless too?” _Or not._

 Kaladin did not smile.  “He was my brother.”

 “The question still stands … well, it would if it could.”

 He looked down at his hands.  There were white traces of scars running down the wrist and into the sleeve, and shiny pale lines in stripes across his palm.  His hands could not be called slender or delicate – they were, after all, the hands of a working man – but they were long-fingered with neatly trimmed nails; there was a surety and confidence to the way he used them to measure her pulse or dig through his kit bag.  His movements were economical and measured; she could discern no trembling or hesitation in them – or him.

 “Of course not,” said Kaladin at last. “He was a woodcarver, a sculptor. When he carved miniatures of my face with frightfully cheery grins onto my bedposts one morning, I admit that such a thought crossed my mind.”

 The line of his lips, usually set sternly, seemed less grim for a moment.  There was no smile, of course: there never was, but Kaladin now almost seemed wistful – as if underneath the ill-humoured disposition there was buried someone who remembered, very faintly, a time long ago when he had no burdens but his own.  It was far from gaiety, no, that could not have been – could never have been – expected.  It was just the merest of indications that Kaladin could be something other than perpetually unpleasant.

 Shallan was quiet.  She found herself thinking that Kaladin did not have an annoying voice; he possessed a deep voice and with his accent marking him as one properly educated, he would not have been so irritating on first impression had he managed to speak without impudent cheek or presumptuous disrespect.  She would have liked to listen to him reading aloud – they would have to be another’s words, of course – thankfully.  She did not speculate how Adolin’s voice sounded when he read; she could not begin to imagine Adolin reading aloud.

  _Adolin._

 “The incident,” she spoke, trying to find the words.  Thoughts, disoriented from the swooning episode, were tumbling back into place haphazardly.  She recognised only some of them.  “Does Adolin think it was an accident?”

 “An unfortunate one, but yes.” Kaladin had returned to his usual tone; it sounded like derision hidden – not entirely successfully – behind impassive professionalism.

 “What if he were to be informed that it may have been … _otherwise?”_

 “Blackmail, Miss Davar?  How very charming – you do move fast.  What do you want?  My support in pressing your suit?”  He seemed amused at the prospect.

 “No.  You’re a doctor.”

 “…The last I checked.”

 “You are familiar with the arithmetic progressionals for ether dosing, then?” asked Shallan.  This was a risk here: she was venturing into dangerous territory.  She was counting on his being a true medical professional in his role of physician – the occupation required that practitioners be willing and capable of holding confidences as a necessary part of their duties.

 The progressionals were a series of mathematical calculations that factored in a user’s size and density – measured through displacement in a bathtub – along with the length of time they wanted to drift, the temperature and humidity of the room, and the purity of their distilled ether.  There was a minimum to induce unconsciousness, and then a series of stable or descending concentrations to either extend the drift-time or awaken the user.  The safest and most reliable way to successfully drift ether was with these calculations: the frolicking dandies had usually hired someone for the numbers whilst the lower classes had gone without.  Shallan had been the one to calculate and prepare for her brothers.  They could not have done the same for her.

 “The formulae?” said Kaladin, taken aback.  Unexpected emotion flickered briefly across his face.  “How would a lady … Are you implying—”

 “Be my watcher.”

 A _driftwatcher_ was the informal title of the person who measured and poured the ether, applied and changed the cloths, and watched the drifter while he dreamt. It was a title that conveyed great trust and intimacy; it was as intimate as the connection between a patient and his personal physician or principal and his bodyguard.  A watcher was expected to prevent others from taking advantage of his charge the drifter whilst insensible; there had been legal disputes in the past when wills or contracts had been altered in the delirium of waking-drift.

 “No.”

 “But—”

 “There are oaths I must adhere to.  Ether does not mark the body, but using it – in that way – marks the spirit.  I will not knowingly do harm – even to someone as insufferable as you.  I believe that harm to the spirit is just as damaging as harm to the flesh,” said Kaladin, his voice flat and toneless.

 It was a refusal, pure and simple.  He disapproved, of the use, if not her desperate urgency for it.  It still felt like a blow to Shallan, heavy with ringing finality.  She tried for another angle.  Kaladin did not respond well to brazen lies, she’d discovered, to her embarrassment.  The whole episode in the carriage was an unwanted reminder of that.  She did know from that instance with the aluminium forks that speaking disconcerting truths could unbalance him.

 “You cannot mark a spirit which carries all the marks that could possibly be borne,” she said.  She could scarcely forget that her outward appearance was none too pristine either: her hair had been a mess since the morning, and her skirts were spattered with mud that had now dried and crusted.

 “Ether drifting,” said Kaladin, “is still the most wretched and reprehensible of vices. Why do you want it? What did you see?”

 “I … had a family.”

 “Everyone has a—”

 “A family in which all the children were loved.”

 Kaladin paused for a moment; he bit back what he was preparing to say.  Then he said: “The Duke will be all the family you need, Miss Davar.”

 He did not meet her eyes.  She thought she saw pity in him.  Was he ashamed to see her descend to this state?  He had, no doubt, thought her just another pretty thing to hang on the Duke’s arm, for as long as she was still pretty enough to catch his eye.  Now, perhaps, he finally saw the wretch in her that he recognised in himself.

 Her face was flushed – from shame or anger or something else, it was impossible for her to guess.  She still felt the sting from his refusal; she wanted comfort, but she was so very very far from home and Malise was dead, and Mother was dead, and Father was dead, and the sensible part of her mind was unresponsive – it might as well have been dead too.  All she had here was Kaladin and he had no kindness in him to spare – least of all for her – and she found that she could not be kind to him now.

 “As he is for you? Is it enough?” she spat.  She felt dark triumph, which was immediately followed by regret.  Too far.  She wanted to use truth to unbalance him, not drive him away completely.

 “I…” he began. Then he rose to his feet.  “We will continue this later.”

 The screen by the door had been slid back.  Adolin stood in the doorway, holding a tray with a tea service; there were three cups and three saucers. There was a serving woman in an apron pushing a trolley to their alcove; she unloaded a large pie with flaking shortcrust, a wooden platter of sliced tenderloin that dripped pinkly in the middle, mustards and pickles and cheeses, a basket of sliced bread, and a large earthenware flagon sloshing with ale.  The bottom level had their table settings.  Adolin set down the tea tray.  He nodded to the serving woman, who wiped her hands on her apron in acknowledgment and bustled away.  Kaladin glanced around their alcove, met Adolin’s eyes and stepped away.  He slid the screen closed.

 “ _Heralds_ ,” remarked Adolin, turning over two teacups and pouring.  “Can the two of you be left alone without re-enacting the plot of some absurd serial?”

 Shallan ran a hand over her face; it felt uncomfortably warm and there were wet spots in the corners of her eyes.  Perhaps it was the pickled onions.  Could pickled onions even draw tears?  She did not know.  But she was aware that she looked terrible, and felt terrible; she had said things that she wished she hadn’t, and shown too much of herself when she had been told – and knew for herself – that one must act a certain fashion if one wanted to attract the gentlemen.  It wasn’t honest, but when were gentlemen attracted to honesty?  They thought they were, but it wasn't true: the very existence of cosmetics and elaborate corsetry was proof to the otherwise.

 She forced a smile.  “I sincerely doubt it, sir.  Perhaps our chaperon needs to be chaperoned.”

 Adolin returned her smile, and took a sip of his tea.  “It seems our Shallan has returned to herself.  Are you feeling better?”

 “Yes, I’m not going to vomit on you.  You can come closer; I promise I shan’t ruin your clothes with drool,” she said.  Well, if she had given Kaladin reason to revise his impression of her from foreign title-hunter to manic ether-wretch, there was no reason to treat Adolin similarly.  He did not seem a bad man; his presence encouraged her to exaggerate the light-hearted side of her character to the point where she felt she was entirely light-hearted.  Perhaps he lacked Kaladin’s acuity, but he was good-humoured through and through, and one need not play verbal racquets to enjoy his company.

 “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”  He waved a hand in her direction; she looked down and realised that she had his fur-collared overcoat on her shoulders.  “It’s only clothes, after all.”

 _“‘Only clothes’?”_ Shallan said, with a genuine smile.  “The Kholinar Duelling Club would revoke your membership immediately if they heard that.”

Adolin laughed – that delightful hearty guffaw – and slid to the edge of his seat; he took her hand.  “I think you’re more important, Shallan.  Even if you don’t think it’s true.”

 This was why she liked Adolin.  He said things he felt, and they were things he truly meant.  She mused on the possibility that he found her joking honesty equally attractive, even if he could not whole-heartedly approve of her reliance on sarcasm.

 “Hah, they were right,” she laughed.  She tilted her head – something she had practiced in the mirror to Jasnah’s tutelage.  “You do know how to flatter a girl.”

 “‘They’?  What do ‘They’ presume to know about me?”

 “They say you don’t embrace girls unless you really like them, and…”

 “…And?”

 “And you reserve your kisses for the girls that you are truly fond of.”

 “Well, whomever ‘They’ happen to be, they seem to know me awfully well.  There are – were – very few for whom I reserve my kisses.”

 “Those lucky girls,” remarked Shallan dryly.  She picked up her teacup and took a sip.  “I am certain they are much to be envied.”

 “I – _Damnation!_ – I am fond of you.  There.  Does it satisfy you, woman?”

 “Not quite,” said Shallan.  She was smiling, and her ears were going red. But she liked Adolin; she liked how the red of her ears matched the flush appearing on his cheeks, how he bit his lip and looked down even as he attempted to counterfeit the suave ladies’ gentleman she saw that he could never have been.

 “Ah,” he said, after a while.  He took a deep breath. “I see. Uh…”

 “Are you going to tell me that I have nice hair?”

 “I was going to ask if, um.  If it was all right with you, and I don’t mean to be too bold or anything...”

 “I shall close my eyes if it helps,” said Shallan, and did so.  She felt something in her chest twine itself in and out of her ribs with sheer gleeful exultation.  No cagéd doves, yet.  But there was some other creature inside her that stole her breath away and made her forget she even needed to breathe.

 She sensed Adolin draw close to her, felt the slight stir of his exhalation against her lashes, and the warmth of his body.  She kept her hands in her lap, over the tartan.  She didn’t want to scare him away prematurely.  There was the lightest brush against the side of her mouth, where it met her cheek, then it was gone.  She waited.  Nothing else happened.  She opened her eyes.  Adolin was back in his seat, dipping a biscuit into his tea.

 Was that it?  _Was that all?!_   This “first kiss” wasn’t worth writing home about, let alone telling Jasnah!

 “If that was fondness, sir,” said Shallan, with an exasperated sigh, “I would hate to see affection.”

 Adolin looked up; the biscuit was in the air, en route to his mouth.  “Are you mocking my, ah, technique?”

 Shallan reddened, and, gathering her courage, swept a lock of hair behind her ear.  “ _No_. I mean, yes.  Just close your eyes, please.”

 She didn’t wait to see if he did.  She got to her feet, rather wobbly; the tartan dropped to the floor.  When she stumbled over to Adolin’s chair and all but fell into his lap, the biscuit dropped also.  She threw one arm over his shoulder, and drew the other hand through his hair.  It was as soft and fluffy as she’d imagined – though never expected.  Then she kissed him.  It was gentle and soft at first, all hesitant bumping noses, but she then pressed against him, wanting more.  She wanted comfort, she wanted contact, and she took it from him all at once.  It was the kiss she had wanted as her first kiss, and not some half-hearted peck of the type one shared as a child with the hall boy or scullery maid when no-one was looking.

 He returned her kiss with passion, and she felt the coolness of his hand against her burning cheek, and felt the smooth slide of his seal ring’s golden band, and the roughened skin of his callused palm catching on the unruly hair curling against her temple.  She pulled away from him, finally – all too soon.  He took a deep breath and his eyes opened.  There was a smile on his face; it matched her own, just like the flushed cheeks she supposed the both of them sported.  She became aware that it was not as comfortable as she had once thought, to sit on a man’s lap – she hadn’t thought knees would be quite so bony – and adjusted her position.

 At that, Adolin suddenly gave a strained cough and cleared his throat.  He turned his head away; he did not look at her face, but pulled her close and laid his head against her shoulder with his ear on her collarbone.

 “I heard someone once say that ten heartbeats of a beating heart is all it takes to form a bond between two,” he said, softly.  He was silent; they both were, for ten heartbeats, and then ten more.  “Perhaps it’s not such a silly idea.”

 Shallan sighed, then gingerly got to her feet.  Her legs were wobblier than before; she staggered back to her chair and sat down heavily.  Adolin’s stomach grumbled with hunger.

 They both laughed rather loudly, and suddenly that single perfect moment was over.  She did not regret that it was over, nor that it hadn't lasted for ever.  But something was different between them now; there was still a tension between them, a humming expectation that did not want to go unanswered.  It was a different sort to the anxious hesitation that had been between them at the start of the pavilion luncheon.  This sensation was strange in its raw newness, and Shallan had never felt it before, nor had Jasnah ever mentioned anything close to it – but it was not at all unpleasant.

 “Should we invite Kaladin back for lunch?” she asked.

 “That would be a good idea. Um. Excuse me,” said Adolin.  He stood, adjusted his neckcloth which had been pulled askew – it didn’t help – and tugged down his waistcoat. He slid back the screen, and stepped out.

 Shallan took the opportunity neaten her own appearance.

 A minute later, Adolin returned, Kaladin following.  Kaladin plucked a bread roll from the basket on the trolley, and bit into it, eyes darting from her still rumpled appearance to the tartan on the floor.  Shallan flushed, then bent over and picked it up.

 _“Oh—!”_ she exclaimed.  “Watch your step! There’s a soggy biscuit on the floor.”

Kaladin gagged, then coughed.  A piece of half-chewed bread flew out of his mouth and landed next to the aforementioned biscuit.

 

 ***

 

 They had their long-delayed luncheon.  It was what the proprietor of the White Boar would have called a huntsman’s lunch, or a ploughman’s, or the name of some other charmingly rustic occupation; whatever would have enchanted the romantic rural sensibilities of the inn’s patrons, who were mostly middle class Courtlea townsfolk rather than genuine labourers.  The only thing the meal had in common with a real farmer’s meal, thought Shallan, as she spooned mustard next to her venison and mushrooms, was that they both contained copious amounts of bread and meat.  She did not think it likely that a farmer’s noon meal had more than one type of bread and one type of meat.

 She and Adolin – what was the situation with their … understanding, now?  They were courting, yes, more than assuredly so.  She had not expected that she would be so taken with him: Jasnah had given her a brief description of her cousin’s character during their journey, and Jasnah was rarely very complimentary on the subject of men’s characters – at least those men who were currently alive and breathing.  Jasnah had not mentioned the glowing red eyes or black blood of storybook monsters – she had rather more tact than that – but Shallan had been expecting the worst.  And what she had gotten was, well, Adolin.

 Their table conversation passed by her; Kaladin kept turning the subject to one of military matters with which she was unfamiliar – he mentioned the names of people she did not know, and locations she had never visited; he lacked the grace to introduce either of them to her knowledge.  She would have felt more excluded had Adolin not occasionally paused to inquire about her opinion; they exchanged shy glances and tentative smiles over the ale flagon, and she could feel his foot tap against hers under the table now and again.  It was almost like a second, unspoken conversation hidden under the first, to which Kaladin – to her great satisfaction – was not privy . It was entirely possible that he noticed hints of it, but Shallan found she could not care.

 Luncheon drew to a close; Adolin was the first to rise.  His napkin was deposited on his plate; he took a last swig of ale.

 “Shall we return, then?  Unless there was something anyone needed from the village while we’re still here…?  No?  Kal, could you escort Shallan to the carriage?  I should settle the bill with the innkeeper,” he said, plucking at the buttons of his waistcoat.  He had eaten quite a lot, Shallan observed.  He always seemed to eat quite a lot during his meals, and then when the next mealtime rolled around, he ate quite a lot then, too.

 Shallan gathered her tartan, and on second thought, folded Adolin’s overcoat over her arm.  Kaladin rose from the table without a word, slid back the screen of their dining alcove, and made his way to the door, stepping pointedly around the abandoned biscuit on the floor.  She hurried after him, maladroit limbs still weakly soft from the earlier … incident.

 “Doctor!” she called, as he pulled open the door.  “Kaladin!”

 He did not hold it open, and it swung back into her face until she caught up the knob and pressed after him.  There was an inner door and an outer door, to retain heat during winter.  Such a style of building was common in the north; she had expected that it would be rarer here in southern Anglekar, but an inn or tavern with guests entering and leaving regularly would need more than one door if it aimed to conserve coal and firewood. Shallan seized Kaladin’s elbow when he had paused to unlatch the outer door.

 He did not turn around.  “I have considered your … proposal.”

 “And?”

 “You were someone’s watcher once.”

 “The formulae ? Of course.  Three someones.”

 “If I were to refuse you,” he said in a low voice that could not be overheard, “you have knowledge enough to seek the drift on your own.”

 He did not push her arm away, and he had slowed his pace slightly – she was grateful for that.  The rain had ceased for now, but the cobbled stable yard was shiny with rain water; it was littered with slick patches of horse doings churned into mud by moving carriage wheels and stepping feet.  There was a queer tone in his voice.  This subject seemed to draw forth memories; his last comment gave the impression that he’d had prior encounters with drifting or driftwatching.

 Shallan took a risk.  “Whose watcher were you?”

 She thought she had missed the mark, but she felt the arm of his that she held twitch and pull away almost imperceptibly.  He did not, however, pull away – nor did he shove her away or throw her to the ground as she was almost afraid that he might.  So, she had struck the mark in this.

 “That’s none of your concern, Miss Davar,” he finally said.  “Past experience has taught me that an immediate refusal does nothing to deter the determined. Ask in a week’s time.  Perhaps by then, the Duke’s regrettable … attachment will be enough for you to reconsider.”

 “The Duke is a good man, but he cannot give me my family.”

 “He can save them from the workhouse.  Do not abandon good sense in favour of false illusions.”  There was coldness in his voice – no judgment, but no empathy either.   _‘_ _It is for your own good’_ were the unspoken words he likely wanted to say, but everyone knew such words did nothing to discourage improper behaviours in the truly obstinate.  

 Shallan was silent as the coachman was summoned and their carriage brought around to the front of The Sign of the White Boar.  _The workhouse_ , she thought.  He knows the details of my current predicament; he knows about my family.  How much does he know about me?  Does he know about – about Father?  No: no-one could know about Father.  They had … taken steps to make sure, double-sure of it.  It had been six months since she had left Loch Davar to seek Jasnah Kholin: not one of her brothers would have let the information leave the estate; she had given Wikim the pages of charted progressionals she’d calculated for Jushu – he could watch and ensure that Jushu stayed at home instead of going out; no-one would have heard his drift-waking rambles…

 It had all seemed like a game – acting the Lady Shallan to Jasnah’s Countess – sunning in Kharbranth’s best hotels like dandies on their Grand Tour – meeting Adolin and living in his palace where the rooms were painted and named with different shades of blue.  But it wasn’t a game, was it? – it was all for her family, for the house on Loch Davar that she had called home.

  _Had called home_.

 Was it still her home?

_It was a prison._

 The consequences of her actions were falling into place now, one by one.  She had not really considered them; the endgame had always been in the fuzzy distance; she’d waved over them with a cursory _‘Jasnah will take care of things as she always does’_.  But success in saving her brothers – success that seemed all too possible now: that would mean she could never be anything more than a guest – an honoured one, of course – to her childhood home.

 She found she was gripping Kaladin’s arm very tightly as the coachman aligned the carriage and unfolded the steps.  He did not pull away or complain.  She took a deep breath and closed her eyes and leaned against him, her head resting against his shoulder.  She did not want him to see her crying.  He had already caught her at a disadvantage twice to-day.

 “You sound just like Jasnah,” Shallan managed to choke out into the lengthening silence.  There was a curious panicked sob to the end of that; she was afraid – afraid – and those yearning doves tucked beneath her ribs cringed inside her.

 “Miss Davar,” he said, in a surprisingly gentle tone.  It did not sound like him; she was so used his being sarcastic or derisive.  “You do know how to flatter a man.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "He seemed about to say something nasty" - Kaladin feels guilty about the whole incident, and is willing to let some of Shallan's rudeness slide.  
> "They could not have done the same for her." - Shallan wanted to when Jushu offered, but she didn't because she is the one who has to look after others. Remember the scene in Chapter 2 when she is weirded out by a maid dressing her? This is a sign that she may not like Kaladin, but she is starting to trust him.  
> "There are oaths I must adhere to." - the Hippocratic Oaths. Kaladin thinks oaths and promises are important and lying is bad. But in his mind he thinks "As long as it is right" when he says them.  
> “Can the two of you be left alone without re-enacting the plot of some absurd serial?” - refers to serialised novels (middle class version of penny dreadfuls) that were common in the era. Also meta joke hahahhahahha.  
> "It wasn’t honest, but when were gentlemen attracted to honesty?" - hint hint, Kaladin is attracted to honesty.  
> "hall boy or scullery maid" - historical detail: the lowest ranking and usually youngest servants in a big house.  
> “Whose watcher were you?” - SPOILERS, well not really, since it will never be revealed in-story: it's Renarin. Kaladin used it to treat the seizures and then Renarin got messed up after it just like Shallan. Shallan is still messed up all the way through this whole episode - she has impaired inhibitions and is not her normal self.  
> “You do know how to flatter a man.” - ironic echo: compare to Shallan's conversation with Adolin. Kaladin was close by the whole time, since he's a bodyguard. In this chapter, he stops hating Shallan so much when he sees she's not just a pretty doll, since she's just as messed up as him. He sees something of Renarin and Tien in her, but is also impressed that she was driftwatcher for three people. He's disgusted and flattered at the same time that she wants him to be her watcher. He has a bunch of mixed up feelings about her now. Shallan still thinks he hates or pities her.


	8. VIII

 Shallan only became truly aware of her state of disorientation once the carriage had started moving.  It had occurred to her that her earlier behaviour – and improper was the most delicate way to describe it – was not normal for her; if it was her, it was the very worst part of her: the part she hid away from sight and pretended didn't exist.  Even now she knew she was still addled; she knew enough to recognise impropriety if it happened, but not quite enough to prevent it before it did.

 She sat next to Adolin on the upholstered bench seat this time, with Kaladin sitting opposite.  The crate of ether bottles had been tied to the back of the carriage, on the folding step that footmen used on sunny day driving.   Part of her still yearned for the mindless comfort of the drift – that part of her that had been raised out of its dormancy by nostalgia and now squatted malevolently in her mind, polluting it with unwanted thoughts of home.

 She could not even draw.  She had tried, but her hands trembled holding the pencil – to Kaladin’s curious gaze – and she had roughly scratched out a sketch of a white boar.  Her fingers lacked precision; there was a pronounced disconnect between the swirling pictures in her mind and control over her limbs.  She was suddenly reminded of the last hard winter in Loch Davar.  They could not afford as much wood or coal that year, and had been rationing their fuel, supplemented with chunks of peat collected from the estate grounds by her brothers.  The Davars had spent most of their evenings in one small parlour with the windows covered in tartan lap rugs, but still it was bitterly cold.  Trying to draw through the numbing paralysis of cold-stiffened fingers had felt much the same way – but in this case it was her own body betraying her.

 She snapped the sketchbook shut and pulled her tartan over her head; she closed her eyes, wearying of homesickness.   Fatigue and the slowly swaying carriage lulled her into the greyness of half-sleep.

 “Are you returning to the front with the Prince?” she heard dully.  She did not bother to divine the meaning of the words; she heard them without focus or consideration.

 “No.  At least not when he does.”

 “I thought giving Renarin his new position meant you could stop watching over his shoulder.”

 “It’s not Renarin; there’s something else Father told me at the Ministry, before I left the City.” A grunt. “ **—** He wants me to stay in case we have to split the Home Regiments on short notice.  The King couldn’t – _wouldn’t_ – do it, so I must stay.”

 “Blasted Heralds, it’s not the indentured uprising business is it?  That is nothing but fearmongering nonsense.”

 “No.  Something from the south, the Continent.  Father says he had new information – apparently it’s so secretive he can’t tell me how he got it – that something’s going on with their new government, worse than their ideological demagoguery…”

 There followed a flood of esoteric information that Shallan did not particularly care about; she drifted into a refreshing true sleep that perhaps was not as comforting as ether-sleep – but it did allow one to arise fully functional, even if one did not want to.

 

 

***

 

 

 There was a tap on her shoulder and the tartan over her head was tugged down.   The carriage was slowing; they were approaching the final curve of the drive to Kholinar Court.  Shallan opened her eyes.  Adolin was in front of her, his face not far from her own.  She had slept through the drive back from the village, and although she still felt the dull tinge of weariness gathered in the edges of her mind, she felt she was much more herself.  

 “Are you all right, Shallan?  Can you walk up, or would it be best if I carried you in?” he asked, looking at her with concern.  The carriage crunched to a halt; Kaladin opened the door and stepped out.  It had stopped raining, but the clouds above still lingered with ominous darkness; the decorative hedges and topiary glistened and dripped.

 “You do know that carrying a woman over the threshold of your house means something, don’t you?” remarked Kaladin.  “Kholinar Court may be less than a day’s ride from the City but country beliefs still hold their sway here.”

 Adolin stepped out of the carriage, then turned to unfold the steps.  “Ah, well, I can summon the butler for a bath chair; I think we still have an old one somewhere…”

 Shallan caught the strap of her satchel, and slid to the door.  Adolin’s overcoat was draped over her shoulders; she pulled it around herself and took Adolin’s guiding arm. 

 “I can walk,” she said.  “There, see!  And Doctor, when I lived in the Scottish countryside, there was a tradition that a man who caught an unwed woman alone in an undignified situation was obliged to marry her.”  She gripped Adolin’s arm tightly; there was still a trembling unsteadiness to her limbs.  He smiled down at her affectionately – was that an unsteady trembling she felt in her breast?

 “A cursed fate indeed,” returned Kaladin.  “And if he refused?”

 “Then I suppose he was never a man at all.”  Her thoughts must be clearer now, if she could find sarcastic things to say automatically and instinctively. 

 “How very barbaric, these Scottish customs.  You must thank the Heralds every day that you are now in civilised lands.”

 “These lands are civilised, yes; the people are, admittedly, somewhat lacking.”

 “Your words – they wound us! – both Adolin and myself.”

 “Well,” said Shallan, “are you still a doctor since the last time you checked?  I trust you can manage your own wounds.  And Adolin:  if being uncivilised meant he could eat his meals without having to change his clothes, he would embrace it with all eagerness.”

 Adolin chuckled, and said, “Of course I would!  How does it make any sense that dining whites must be worn to dine?”

 Kaladin’s eyebrows drew together.  He looked at Shallan, then at Adolin, and shook his head.  “And you’re agreeing with this Scottish frog?  Here I thought that we menfolk were meant to stand together in solidarity.  That being the sole purpose of gentlemen’s clubs and, presumably, the Admiralty.”

 “That only works when there are no women present,” Shallan answered.  “Send some skirts into a gentlemen’s club and see how it unfolds.  You may be due for a disappointment.”

 “Feminine tyranny is not such a bad thing, Kal,” Adolin said.  They had reached the portico of the House and he was now holding the front door open for Shallan.  “There are things women can teach us ignorant men, you know.”

 “You are lovesick.”

 “That sounds awfully like a diagnosis, Doctor,” noted Shallan.  “So what, dare I ask, is the cure?”

 “Well, there is one very old, and shall we say—” Kaladin paused, “— _traditional_ – method of curing lovesickness in foolish young men.”

 “And what is it?”

 “Marriage.”

 Adolin burst into loud laughter at this, wiping his eyes.  “Sickness or cure – I do not think I should mind having either.”

 “Bah!”  Kaladin threw his arms in the air and stalked off. 

 Shallan now found herself in the foyer with Adolin.  She released his arm, and dragged the overcoat off her shoulders.  It was very heavy, with fine wool woven thickly – imported, she assumed, since the local wools she was used to itched, and were better suited for carpets or rugs than clothing. There was a jaunty bright blue silk lining on the interior. 

 “Ah—” she said, holding it out to him.  “Your coat, before I forget.  I must thank you for that – wonderful – luncheon.  And I should apologise for the inconvenience the, um … incident … caused for you.”

 “It was not such an inconvenience that I could not be secretly pleased if it happened again.”

 Shallan reddened.  She could feel it; her ears went warm first, and then colour would spread across her cheeks and meet at her nose.  She almost regretted that the indifference of emotion in the waking-drift had now left her; if he had said that to her earlier, she doubted she would make such a show of herself as she was sure she was making now. 

 She looked down at her muddied underskirts peeping out from the hem of her dress.  Then she looked up at Adolin’s good-humoured smile, and his blue eyes which were an ordinary, mundane shade of blue.  But they looked at her with a gentle fondness – and that was when she slowly came to realise that, in all her life, such sentiments from another could be considered neither ordinary nor mundane.  

 “If it happened again, I should find myself pleased also.  But I am afraid I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret,” she said softly.  They were bold words, intimate words of the like that she had never said to anyone before, and Adolin blushed at them.  His bashfulness was truly a delight.

 He took her hand, then he leaned forward for a peck on the cheek.  Shallan turned her head at the last moment, and his lips brushed against hers very briefly.  He pulled back, face coloured to match hers.

 He took a deep breath.  “Join us for dinner at eight, please, Shallan.”

 “Of course.”

 They stood in the foyer for a while – Shallan could not guess how much time had passed – with hands linked together; his thumb traced idle patterns over her knuckles.

 Someone cleared his throat in the background; Adolin dropped her hands and straightened.   Shallan returned to herself.  There was a footman and a maidservant at the door, looking expectantly at them. 

 “I shall look forward to seeing you then,” whispered Adolin, and then he was swept up by servants who took his coat and umbrella and ushered him away to be refreshed in his own quarters.

 The maidservant led Shallan up the stairs to the bathing chamber.  She supposed there was a subtle criticism of her appearance in that, but she could not find it in herself to be anything more than appreciative.  She was undressed; her muddy clothes were taken away and replaced by a clean white shift and dressing robe; she soaked herself in the warm water until her fingers took on the appearance of walnut hulls. 

 The embarrassing things that had happened to-day: the humiliating knowledge that this shameful vice of hers had been revealed to Kaladin, of all people.  She was ashamed of how she had presented herself, and ashamed still that everything she had told Kaladin had been – worst of all – completely true.  He must think her weak-minded now; she had admitted to indulging multiple others, and was now bent on indulging herself.  It must truly grate on him that such a wretch was attaching herself to his patron: he might one day find himself under her authority, second-hand though it might be. 

 These unpleasant thoughts roiled through her mind as she sat in the lukewarm bath-water.  She lay back and let the water rise to her shoulders, then her throat, until it closed over her head.  Bubbles of air frothed to the surface; Shallan watched them rise as the ceiling of the chamber wavered back and forth through the water, as if she were peering through a mystical veil to another world ... A thought occurred to her.  She sat up.

  _Why,_ by the Ten Heralds and the Ten Fools, _did Kaladin’s opinion matter to her?_

 She did not want to puzzle out the answer.  Was she afraid of what she might conclude?  She pushed the thoughts away, but they still lingered while she put on the shift and tied the dressing robe around her waist.  She returned to her own bedchamber, contemplative and unresisting, as the maid settled her in front of the vanity, draped a towel over her shoulders, and began to tease at her hair with brushes and combs.  She did not tug at the hair, but used a scented oil to slowly work out the tangles.  It was relaxing to Shallan, who had not had a woman arrange her hair in years, and it drew a sense of easy contentedness over her.  Perhaps a lady’s maid had its benefits – she herself would have given up in impatience if the task had been assigned to her.

 “Why is Doctor Kaladin such an insufferable creature?”  The words burst from her lips. 

 There was a silence.  The maid’s hands stilled.  In the looking glass, Shallan saw her glance from side to side, as if she were searching for someone in the room that Shallan must have been addressing.   The room was empty but for the two of them.

 “Doctor Kaladin is a real gentleman to us who stay downstairs,” she said shyly.  “Erm.  Begging your pardon.  My lady.”  She looked down at her hands, then Shallan’s face in the mirror, and continued dressing her hair.

 “Really,” began Shallan.  “Kaladin and gentleman in the same sentence?  That, I cannot possibly imagine.”

 The maid hesitated, then spoke again.  “He’s only s’posed to be physicking for His Lordship and the Family, but he comes down whenever one of us takes ill.  He goes round the village too, and never charges for the trouble.”

 “That is … interesting.”

 “He’s a very good sort,” said the maid, who seemed to be gathering her courage now that Shallan hadn’t reprimanded her: housemaids – which this one was, as there was no lady’s maid in the House – were ideally to be rarely seen and never heard.  “He takes care of _those_ issues as well, without the lectures you get from the church medic in the village.”

 _“Those_ issues?”

 “Er, you know, my lady?”  The maid seemed rather sheepish now.  She could not meet Shallan’s eyes in the looking glass.

 “Um.  Not really, I’m afraid.”

 “Well, you being a Lady and all, you’ll be proper wed when time comes to worry about such things.   Us maids have to leave service if we were to be, ah, married.”

 There was another silence while Shallan tried to figure out what had just transpired.  The only other woman Shallan had had conversations with in recent times was Jasnah, and Jasnah tended to be so direct in her speech as to almost approach tactlessness.  But Jasnah possessed such poise and natural authority in her manner that if one felt affront in her company, one thought it was a fault in themselves rather than her.

 The maid mistook the silence for something else.  “You needn’t worry so much, my lady.  His Lordship’s a kind and generous man; he’ll take good care of you like he makes sure to take care of all of us.”

 “I don’t want to be taken care of,” said Shallan, rather shortly. 

 “My lady, and I know it’s never my place to say – but it means a great deal for us below stairs to see he has taken a liking to you.  All of us look forward to a new Duchess in the House.”

 “Why is that?”

 “Well, this is speaking out of turn here, and I won’t say it’s my own opinion, but many people here and in Courtlea would much prefer His Lordship over his brother.  If something were to happen to him in war, it’d be best for all of us if he had an heir,” the maid replied, nervously.  She turned the hairbrush over in her hands.  It was silver with a design of blue enameled forget-me-nots on the back, twining around a central monogram of _‘S.K.’_.

 So it seemed it wasn’t just Jasnah, or her brothers, who wanted her to secure an alliance.  But she _had_ asked.   “Thank you for your honesty.”

 “If there’s anything at all, my lady?” asked the maid.  She stood, finished brushing out Shallan’s hair, and slid the combs and brushes into a cloth roll that closed with a button and a loop of string.  The roll was placed into the side drawer of the vanity. 

 It occurred to Shallan that she did not know the maid’s name.  She did not, in fact, know the names of any servant at the House, though by now she had come to recognise some of them, such as the butler or the first footman and to-day’s carriage driver, by their faces.  Although she had doubts she could manage it if they were not wearing their livery. 

 “Please—” she said cautiously, “—what is your name?  In case I need to send for you, of course.”

 “Second chambermaid Finnie, my lady.”  The maid ducked into a respectful curtsey.  It was not very good; her elbows stuck out in an ungainly fashion.  She presumably had little contact with the Family in her regular duties – that would be the reserve of the upper household staff.

 “Thank you, Finnie,” said Shallan, trying on Jasnah’s gracious tone that managed to tuck in a politely unsaid dismissal at the end.  Finnie left, and the door closed behind her.  Shallan was left staring at her reflection in the looking glass.  She looked tired and she felt tired, but there was work to be done.

 Shallan spent the rest of the afternoon going over the maps taken from the church’s surveys, making two copies of each.  It was tedious, but she had such an exciting – if the word could be stretched so – morning; busywork like this was a relief in comparison.

 The maps were a series of pages with rough outlines drawn on a grid, marking out the boundaries of the estate grounds.  There was one larger, polished-looking map at the back of the envelope, depicting the shape of the whole of Kholinshire, with the City in the centre and all the various estates of the Family and the lower gentry circled in different colours.   The other maps were closer views of the Kholin estates.  Shallan noticed that there was no map for Jasnah’s house, Ivory Lane, and the lands that belonged to the Marquess Kholinshire, Adolin’s brother, were shown as just another part of the Kholinar Court ducal estate. 

 She flicked through and found the maps for the ducal woodlands, the hunting preserve that Brother Kadash had mentioned that morning.  It was a forest, Kholinshire Forest, situated in between Kholinar Court and what would be the present-day Kholinshire Park.  These were the maps she wanted.

 She copied them out painstakingly, using set squares and rulers to mark out the grids exactly, before tracing the contours of the land features.  Shallan was not certain that the measured distances would be correct – the maps of the forest were made by a groundskeeper and a huntmaster rather than a trained cartographer.  In any case, the regions of woodland would have moved on the edges as villagers cut the trees down as per their ancient citizens’ right to a certain amount of cordage every year.

 One of the maps had the information she was looking for.  There was Kholinar Court in the top corner for reference; it was woodland to the south of the estate.  There was a dashed line through the forest, marked _“Logging trail”_ , a creek running across, and near that a few clustered _X_ marks with the label _“ruins here, may seek shelter”._   So this was where the crofters or charcoal burners or hermits … or Heralds, whomever they were, lived in the years before the House had been built and the area around the City was all woodland. 

 It was becoming more difficult to see now, and when Shallan looked up, she saw that the diffused grey sunlight had begun to fade into evening.  She rose from her seat and found the clockwork fire starter on the nightstand; she was fiddling with it, trying to light the glass chimney lamps on the walls, when there came a knock on the door.

 “Come in!” she called, her back to the door still.

 “My lady, it’s Finnie,” said a voice, and Shallan turned around.  The maid who had done her hair bobbed a curtsey, arms full of folded fabric.  “Lady Jasnah ordered the housekeeper – before she left – to have these pressed and set out for you, when you join His Lordship for formal dining.” 

 The bundle of fabric was laid out on the bed, and the fire starter was taken from her hands.  The curtains were pulled closed – one could not undress at night with the lamps on, as the view might surely be seen from the drive – while Shallan picked up the blue silk dress and the matching white underdress.   The underdress was made from fine thin cotton, with lace at the neckline, wrists and hem.  It was not a little girl’s simple tatting that Shallan was capable of, but the complex and symmetrically detailed lacework that well-practiced grannies made when they sat by the fire and told their grand-daughters that such work could land them a good match.

 “Lady Jasnah said she bought it in Kharbranth for you,” said Finnie, holding out the dress.  Of course, Jasnah:  Jasnah could still manage Shallan’s affairs even when she was absent; Shallan idly imagined that if Jasnah died, people would still be coming to her years later bearing messages that ordered her to do this or that.  She undid the tie of her dressing gown, stepped out of her shift, and allowed Finnie to dress her.

 “How do I look?” asked Shallan, as Finnie tugged out the draping on the skirt’s back.

 “You pull it off better than the other girls did, if you don’t mind me saying,” replied Finnie.  “They had themselves laced up tight in the front, to better catch His Lordship’s eye.  But you haven’t got much to lace there.”  She gestured at Shallan’s dress, which, though it did not show much, revealed more shoulder than chest. 

 “Other girls?  How many other girls _were_ there?”

 “Er, I think the butler once mentioned he went through one a month when he was in the City, but when we had entertaining here, His Lordship’s dinner companions usually lasted one night before they left; they were never invited back.”

 “Three days.  Ha, I must be setting a record here,” remarked Shallan.

 “The men downstairs are running a book, but I wouldn’t know about it.”

 The lamp by the vanity was lit, and Shallan’s hair was braided up and pinned into place.  One girl a month?  Girls who lasted one night?  Was this really Adolin, _her_ Adolin?   _Storms,_ she was calling him _hers_ now?  What was coming over her?  Shallan wondered what she was doing so right that those nameless, countless other girls had gotten wrong.  She had not acted much differently than her normal self; she rebelled against Jasnah’s instructions and advice at almost every turn.  What she had presented to Adolin was the _ideal_ of herself – the person she wanted to be, whom she could have been in actuality rather than act, if life had chosen a different path and the trail of death and destruction in her childhood had never started with her mother.

 How much of this was dishonesty?  She mused on this – this act was part of her, she was perfectly comfortable with it because it was her – yet wasn’t truly her, at the very same time.  Kaladin, _Heralds curse the man_ : he must have seen through it immediately.   Did every man and woman have different sides to them?  When Kaladin spoke of his dead brother, or helped unfortunate servants with their – _mysterious_ – personal issues, was that his gentle side, the side that made chambermaids sigh over his gentlemanliness?  And possibly his deeply perceptive eyes, and his breadth of physique, and—

 _“Ouch!”_ yelped Shallan.

  _And his ugly unpleasant eyebrows.  And one cannot forget his ugly unpleasant scowl._

 “Begging your pardon, my lady.  Is that pin too tight?” said Finnie, timidly.

 “No, it’s quite all right.  Please, just leave it out,” said Shallan.   “Is there anything else?”

 “Erm.  No?  Unless you have any jewels I should help you with?”

  “No, I don’t.  Thank you, Finnie.  Have a nice evening,” said Shallan, feeling irritable for unknown reason.  Perhaps it was being stuck by a pin.  Finnie seemed to perceive that Shallan didn’t want to be disturbed in this instance; she curtseyed and backed away and then left, taking Shallan’s worn shift with her.  Was it the pin?  Maybe it was not having any jewels – the Davar family had sold theirs long ago; even her brothers’ silver tartan brooches had been melted down and replaced with cheap pot-metal pins.

 Shallan cleared up the pile of copied pages, and folded the maps.  It was always very strange how one could unfold a map in seconds, but refolding it so the creases lined up took minutes.  But it was finished, and Shallan slid them back into their envelope – and after looking around the room – she slipped them underneath the roll of brushes in the vanity’s drawer.

 It was half-past-seven when Shallan, growing restless in her room, wandered downstairs.  Footmen were lighting the lamps – bright naphtha chimney lamps in regular intervals down the halls, what extravagance! They were also refilling the reservoirs with oil and adjusting the light.  She was reminded of that late evening when she had found herself in these halls alone, when half the lamps were unlit and the other half lowered to an oil-conserving dimness.   She had not stopped to look around; she had not thought there was anything to see in her own frantic desperation to return to her own room.

 But there was a long gallery here, well lit, with frame after frame of painted portraits and painted shields in an assortment of shapes and designs.  They were mostly all blue.  _Cobalt_ , Shallan remembered, was the colour of Kholin blue – it was technically called _azure_ to those who painted such shields.

 The paintings at the beginning of the gallery were almost naïf in their technical simplicity; they were queerly flat and emotionless.  The backgrounds were beautifully detailed, with sunbeams bursting through clouds in a way that Shallan knew was supposed to represent the Almighty’s Grace and Light; it showed that the subjects were His chosen leaders of men.  There were quaint wooden houses in the background – this was presumably Kholinar before Kholinar was the City, or a city at all.

 Subtlety was not to be found in the first half of the portrait gallery.  They mostly depicted men: men wearing armour, men bearing outrageously oversized swords – _oh my, what could that possibly mean?_ – men holding scrolls, men with their hands possessively resting on model globes.  It was only when Shallan ventured into the second half did she see family paintings, of men with their wives, and sometimes with their pets and children.  The men from the first half did have horses, one had to admit, but Shallan counted them to be in the same category as the swords and armour. 

 She liked these paintings more.  There was more emotion in them – they were records preserved of the people who lived in the House, she felt – rather than an allegorical representation of how much land and wealth and power a man had.   She knew such an indulgent opinion was a sign of the times and of her own position: art was a hobby to her, and not even her Calling.  The painters who made these pieces were workmen at their trade, no mere idle lady whiling away the interval between completing her feminine education and finding a husband.

 She neared the end of the long gallery.  There were several empty frames; she went back to look at the last portraits.  They, she thought, were the most well-done in skill and subject matter; they best appealed to her modern sensibilities.  The very last was in an oval frame: it showed a dark-haired man in blue and a lady with braided blonde hair in a white dress.  The man had a dignified presence; he could be called handsome if one was partial to large noses and thick black eyebrows – and Shallan assuredly was not.

 There was a voice behind her: “That’s my mother and father.”

 Shallan turned.  It was Adolin, wearing his dining whites and looking perfectly comfortable in them.  His hair had been combed – not very neatly – off his forehead and his formal, courtly appearance made Shallan feel suddenly very anxious, even though she was dressed equally formally.                                                                                

 “You don’t much resemble your father,” she said.

 “Everyone tells me that I take after my mother more,” he replied, and now he was standing next to her in front of the oval gilt frame.

 Shallan searched for something to say.  Talking about families … this was not an easy subject for her, and past experience had shown her that she could easily, unknowingly misstep.  “I don’t think I am much like my own mother.”

 Adolin seemed to sense that this made her uncomfortable; he reached for levity.  “For the first few years of my life, I thought my mother’s name was _‘Grefina’_.  Silly isn’t it? – it was what her lady’s maid and my nursemaids called her; she’d brought them with her when she married Father.”

 “And it wasn’t her name?”

 “No: it was her title, _Gräfin_.  Which was actually her father’s title, and now that I think of it, a bit disrespectful to those who care about such things – since Father made her a Duchess and that’s a higher rank.”

 “Does this mean you might inherit lands on the Continent?  Or would you have mysterious distant cousins contacting you, promising to deed over the estate on the condition of your sending funds to retain a lawyer?”

 Adolin chuckled at that, he glanced down at her and offered his arm.  “Actually, something like that has happened before.  Shall we go through to dinner, then?”

 Shallan smiled and took his arm.  “I would be delighted.  And even more so if you tell me about those ‘cousins’ of yours.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shallan is going through some character development, and trying to figure out her feelings for the gentlemen. Kaladin isn’t a cardboard monster now, is he? The maid character (non-canon SA character) was added for exposition purposes and to show that Shallan is letting herself relax and accept her place in the house. And now you see that when Shallan, Adolin and Kaladin are friendly, they have a pretty interesting and fun dynamic.
> 
> TELL ME HOW YOU LIKE THE SETUP FOR A TRIANGLE. I think the chasm scene in WoR was pretty hamfisted, honestly. If only Brandon Sanderson were a romance writer.
> 
> \- "Renarin's new position" - Renarin is now a supply/logistics officer in this AU. This happened because they put him in a benchwarmer combat unit first but he still almost got killed, and then Kaladin had to save him.  
> \- "Something from the south" - something Jasnah is looking for, but Shallan doesn't recognise.  
> \- "Bath chair" - old fashioned wheelchair, to be pushed by a servant or pulled by a pony.  
> \- "Presumably the Admiralty" - Joke about the Navy having rum and the lash and one other thing. :)  
> \- "Those issues" - Shallan is just as innocent as Adolin in some ways. Historical detail: maids were expected to be maidens and low rank domestic servants had to quit to get married. Same for having a child, which is what Finnie is trying to say.  
> \- "Kind and generous man" - Finnie is trying to tell Shallan she shouldn't be scared on the wedding night, and Shallan thinks she's talking about gold digging.  
> \- The silver hairbrush - was Adolin's mother's. I have decided that forget-me-nots are her flower motif for humourous reasons. The S stands for Shshshsh.  
> \- The lace dress - historical detail: it's extremely expensive handmade bobbin lace, called "Brussels lace" in the real world. The type on the dress is called "Duchess point" lace. Adolin’s mother wears Duchess point lace on her dress in the portrait. :-D  
> \- "Laced up tight in the front" - yes, it's cleavage, which Shallan doesn't have. But Adolin doesn't care.  
> \- Shallan is a pretty judgy art critic. She does not like the early paintings, and if she lived in a later period, she wouldn't like post-modernism.  
> \- "Outrageously oversized swords" - reference to Shardblades.  
> \- “Thick black eyebrows” – reference to Kaladin.  
> \- "Easily, unknowingly misstep" - reference to snarking on Kaladin praying for his dead brother.  
> \- "Grefina" - comes from "Graf", equivalent to "Count". As mentioned earlier, Adolin's mother was from the East Continent. If calling a Duchess “Countess” is disrespectful, then Kaladin is disrespectful by calling Lady Shallan “Miss Davar”. If it’s allowed by the other person, then it implies familiarity.  
> \- "Mysterious distant cousins" - The Nigerian Prince scam has a very very long history.


	9. IX

 “And the solicitor wrote to me,” said Adolin, recounting the story, _“‘if the Ritter von Niedlich is asking for two thousand spheres sterling, then his wife would like to inquire for his current whereabouts – since she last saw him fifteen years ago in a casket!’”_

 Shallan laughed; it felt appropriate to do so.  He was not the best of anecdotal storytellers – nothing at all like the sailors of the _Wind’s Pleasure_ – but this was a story he seemed to have practised many times before; there was a certain animated earnestness to his manner when he told it.  It was lively and pleasant, and his features lit up in a charming way at the close: one could not help but like his infectious good-humoured disposition.

 “Well,” she said, “did it turn out all right in the end?  I should wonder if—”

 The dining room door was opened by a footman.  It was the same formal dining room as the one she and Jasnah had used that very first evening after arriving to Kholinar Court.  The table settings were the same – larger chair at the head of the table, and two smaller ones to the left and right.  Three settings: three sets of glass and plate.

 Oh.  Of course.

 Doctor Kaladin. 

  _Who else._

 Kaladin was there, taking his place at a seat to the right of the central chair; it was the very spot he had chosen when she and Jasnah had dined.  He acknowledged Adolin’s presence with a brief military salute of clenched fist to breast as he pulled his own chair out; he did not bow to Shallan or even present her with a polite nod.

 Kaladin was not wearing his dark charcoal-grey woollen suit with its threadbare elbows as she had seen him wear every day since she had arrived; he had on well-pressed dining whites with pristine starched shirtfront.  Though his whites were – Shallan found it difficult to admit – smart and presentable, one could not say they were as nice as Adolin’s; he had simple knots of silk instead of cufflinks, and his neckcloth was not so elaborately tied.  There was something about the man that looked scruffy: he could make formal dining suits look pedestrian and he seemed to exude an aura that would slowly but silently un-press pleats.

 Adolin pushed in her chair and found his own seat; he signalled to the footmen and dinner was begun with the pouring of wine – none for Kaladin, as usual – and the serving of the first course.  It was a soup made of split and sieved peas boiled with salted ham hocks and leeks.   Adolin started on his soup with relish, and Shallan noted that no-one had said a prayer to the Almighty in His aspect of the Light of Cultivation.  Such piety was apparently not in fashion among the Anglethi gentry; it was gladly placed with most other superstitions into the domain of the lower classes.

 “I did not expect to see you in dining whites, Doctor,” she said.  She did not want to re-tread the same tiresome steps on that first night, when Jasnah and Kaladin had all but ignored her in their debate about morality and politics.

 Kaladin’s spoon halted in its progress to his unpleasant scowling mouth – he had the ability to scowl while eating.  “Your expectations of other people must leave you endlessly disappointed.”

 “That is only around you, and it is not only I.”

 “The same can be said for you, Miss Davar—”

 “Adolin doesn’t—”

 “With an exception for those who should know better,” he replied, and looked to Adolin.  Adolin shrugged; his mouth was full and his attention was directed to his soup bowl.  “But even those who hold the lowest of expectations for me would not expect that I should dine with a coat stained with a nameless person’s saliva, no?”

 “Kal,” spoke Adolin, as he signalled to the footmen to begin the second course, “if women are anything like hounds, a little spit means she likes you.”

 Shallan snorted.  “Oh my.  Adolin, two barbs tucked into a single consolation?  There may be hope for you yet.”

 “But I like hounds!  Wait, there were two?”

 “You imply that Doctor Kaladin can be likeable – you are learning our ways of ironic effect.”

 “Adolin,” Kaladin said; a footman took his soup bowl and replaced it with a dish of kidneys stewed with mushrooms and chestnuts.  “Were you in the pursuit of a model for anything, Miss Davar should be the last person you might consider.  In any case—” he paused, “—I spent the afternoon in the stillroom decanting ether.  If I had worn my ether-soaked garments to-night, it would have put me in quite a position.”

 “And why is that, Doctor?” Shallan asked.  The incident of the morning was still very uncomfortably recent.

 “Because your own position would be horizontal, and undignified.”

 Adolin laughed; Shallan could see the humour in it, but it certainly would not do to give Kaladin the impression that his conversational skills were engaging in the least.  She said: “And are you too much a gentleman for that?”

 “It is not the idea of your being horizontal that is daunting, but rather that such an indignity would call for a, ah, traditional commitment.”

 “Is that really so undesirable?” said Adolin.

 “One may summon the fortitude to suffer a single night of drool dampened pillows, I admit, but…”

 “Yes?”

 “The prospect of a lifetime of Miss Davar I find to be rather objectionable.”

  _The cheek of the man!_ thought Shallan.  She knew that she had the flaw of wanting to be the last word in every conversation; if scores were kept for each clever jab, she felt it was her duty to take every point.  Usually, it was quite easy to do so: most ladies with whom she was acquainted in the area around Loch Davar acknowledged her as their social superior, and allowed the familiarity of her conversational comedy.  But Kaladin was one of the few who had both the wit and the inclination to turn a comment; he possessed the disregard for social decorum that allowed him to do so without hesitation. 

 She supposed it was hypocritical of her to feel affronted, but she did feel it – and it was not that Kaladin was mocking her in company that was rankling, but rather that he might very well be her equal in wit.  The thought of it was quite disconcerting, and she would have immediately responded brusquely – but there was something in her that discouraged such hastiness.  He would hardly be disposed to aligning himself with her sentiments if she made herself a villain, would he? 

 Because the fact of the matter was this: she desperately wanted to return home.  There was no home to return to; it had died six years ago and could never come back.  The home that it had become was a broken shadow of what it once was, and the only way she could return to its former state of blissful glory was through the dreaming of ether vapours.  The vapours she had held inside her that morning had disintegrated into nothing; she could think now with clarity and of strategy, but all she thought of was returning: to a place where tartans and lavender were nothing but happy reminders of a happy childhood.

 Kaladin had his uses.  He might not be a pleasant man, but the conversation with the housemaid earlier had convinced her that there was pity in him that could be found for wretches like herself.  So perhaps she could not be courteous with him, but she could at least acquit herself in a fashion that would draw from him some sympathy.  It wasn’t as if she had to like the man – and it definitely wasn’t as if she liked him now.

 “Well, I wouldn’t be a Miss Davar, would I?” she said, choosing her words with more care than she’d done in some time.  “Perhaps you might find the form _‘_ _Mrs Doctor’_ more palatable.  However, I think I find the title _‘_ _Duchess Kholinar’_ to be the least objectionable.”

 “No doubt you do,” said Kaladin, fork in hand.  Shallan now noticed they were the aluminium set from the first dinner.

 “Why should I not?  Small-mindedness is hardly becoming, Doctor.”

 “Please lecture me about my small-mindedness, I implore you.”

 “I shall take that as a sign of your humility; it could not possibly mean anything else,” Shallan said.  “Anyway, I was in the village church to-day – as you remember – and I spoke to Brother Kadash.  You may know of him.”

 Adolin nodded.  “The head Ardent, yes.  He was one of my tutors as a child.”

 “Well, we had a conversation about the ducal estate.”  That was truth; it could not be denied.  Kaladin had an uncanny awareness for separating truth from untruth – she would avoid them in his presence, but stringing together small truths that gave the impression of a larger, implied picture without saying so directly: that was not a lie, and that should not earn his ire.  “I thought it a splendid idea if the church infirmary were to be expanded, with the Duke’s permission, of course.  The war does produce a large number of wounded veterans, as the Doctor would know.”

 “A new wing for convalescence would not go amiss; it should be of great value to the village when – _if_ – the war ends,” conceded Kaladin.  He glanced over at her, his eyes searching her face with their darkly intelligent gaze; he was trying to discern the reason for her sudden generosity toward the church.  He likely did not take her as a pious sort: in her dressed hair and lace gown, she would look no different in his eyes to the other girls of the Duke’s that he had deemed a nuisance from the very start.

 “A commendable idea, Shallan,” Adolin agreed.  “I shall speak to the steward about it next I meet him.”

 “Thank you, sir.”  Shallan inclined her head to him and smiled; Adolin smiled back.  There was a man one did not have to force themselves to be agreeable with – if only all men could be as amiable in temperament as he.  But if it were so, she was suddenly reminded, Balat would have been whole again, and Father would be alive, and she would never have met the wonderful Duke.  She pushed the thoughts away; she reached for the friendly teasing Shallan that people liked.  Not the sad girl with bloody hands and a mourning veil of ether fumes.  No-one could like that Shallan.  “If you were in the pursuit of a model for anything, Doctor, I should like to recommend myself as the first person you might consider a model of charitability.”

 “I had not thought such an unselfish person—” here his eyes swept over her, “—would swan about in imported lace.”

 “It was a gift from Lady Jasnah, Doctor.  It seems that charitable people are often rewarded with equal charity.”

 “It seems I find myself unacquainted with such charity.”

 “If it would prove the unselfishness of my character, I would tear this lace from my breast.  But it, of course, would put you in an undignified position,” returned Shallan.

 “Me?” said Kaladin, one unpleasant eyebrow raised impudently.  “What about Adolin?”

 “Um.  If you are to be putting each other – and me – into undignified positions,” said Adolin, gesturing to the footmen to take their plates, “I think I would rather not do it on an empty stomach – and the pudding hasn’t yet arrived.”

 The pudding was brought in now, in a large silver bowl that was too much for three people, even if one of them had Adolin’s prodigious appetite.  Brandy was poured atop, and a footman dipped a lit splint that set it afire.

 “You finished your dinner, and yet you have an empty stomach?” asked Shallan.

 “I find that one always has an empty stomach when awaiting the arrival of pudding,” Adolin said.

 Shallan wondered what happened to the food that was left uneaten.  The Duke’s meals were extravagant to her eyes, and the last remove of duck confit with sliced asparagus and minted carrots had been loaded onto plates at the sideboard before being delivered to their table.  The half-full platters were still there, resting on iron stands, with naphtha lamps gently warming them from beneath.  Did the servants get to eat them?  Back home in Loch Davar, she and her brothers ate the same food as the servants; it was all they could afford.  The only difference being their eating off porcelain – chipped pieces that could not find a buyer – whilst the servants used local pottery.  There was rarely enough for leftovers: that was considered a luxury.

 After the display, the pudding was taken to the sideboard, and an aluminium cake server was used to dish it onto their dessert plates; their used dinner forks and knives were removed.  Their pudding was brought to the table – it was a very rich fig and plum pudding that tasted of treacle and imported spices; boiled cream was poured on top.  

 Shallan could not finish it: adjusting to this variety and quantity of food would take some time – even while she travelled with Jasnah, she had not eaten like this.  The Kharbranth hotels were prone to serving locally caught fishes and crab-things, which one eventually tired of; the inns on the journey, without exception, served various iterations of stew and bread for their guests.   But Adolin seemed to enjoy pudding immensely, and though Kaladin was not as earnest in his enjoyment – he dissected his serving with clinical precision – even his plate was cleared before she had done away with half of hers.

 

 ***

 

 Afterward, they were led to the retiring room – the very same retiring room that Shallan had fallen asleep in that first night.  If it was to be a re-enactment then, Shallan thought, this second chance deserved not to approach the heights of humiliation that had been ascended in the first.

 It was exactly as it had been when she had first seen it.  The stuffed heads of exotic game animals, the sidebar with the drinks cabinet – there was the yellow wine bottled with the wolf’s head stopper – the sofa with its wooden frame and silk-damask upholstery – the low table next to it.  The tea tray was gone, but Shallan felt a twinge of remembrance when she saw that her book was still there on the table.   It felt like a very long time ago, but in this room, nothing had changed at all.

 It was with a peculiar sense of reminiscence that Shallan settled into the leather armchair – the same one Adolin had used – and opened the book to the page marked by a ribbon.  The gentlemen unfolded the wooden cover of a side table, revealing a billiards baize in blue rather than the ordinary green; there were racked cues by the sidebar.

 Why was it so strange?  It struck Shallan that just a few days ago – when she was reading in this room – she had never courted a young man, nor kissed one, and she had never drifted on ether or stumbled her way through its waking-drift.  She was infinitely more experienced than the Shallan of a week ago, but even now she lacked the wisdom to make sense of it all.   She was mulling over its significance to the quiet clicking of wooden cues on ivory balls, when Adolin’s voice woke her out of her reverie.

 “Shallan, have you any plans for to-morrow?”

 “What is usually done hereabouts?” she replied.

 “The Court is a country house – those who guest here tend to espouse a hearty interest in country sporting.  Otherwise, one could always venture to the City for a day of theatre and shopping.”

 “Well, I cannot say I am one particularly partial to country diversions.  But I am an amateur naturalist and botanist, and I find the abundance of new scenery here quite stimulating.”

 Adolin turned around, swinging his cue about.  Kaladin ducked as the pointed end neared his face; he did not look at all startled.  “You would like to tour the estate grounds, then?”

 “I would like to visit the Kholinshire Forest, if it pleases you, sir.”

 “The Forest?”  Adolin and Kaladin exchanged a glance; Shallan could not divine the meaning of it.

 “Adolin,” she began, slowly, thinking furiously about the many ways to justify an excursion – at least one of them had to be feasible, it must!  “How familiar are you with absurd serials?”

 “They make for light entertainment now and then,” he replied.  “Where are you going with this?”

 “Well,” continued Shallan, “what if there happened to be a lost treasure of the ancients, hidden in the forest?  With a mysterious map marking the way?”

 “How very thrilling!  But the absurd plots would say that there is a great curse involved also.”

 “Curses?  Treasure?” scoffed Kaladin.  “ _Bah!_   The two of you are following the gleam of non-existent gold like any two-chip mercenary.”

 “There was a survey made fifty years ago of the woodlands south of the House.  There are – or were – some ancient structures to be found, apparently,” said Shallan, ignoring him.

 Kaladin looked sceptically at her; he set his cue on the edge of the table.  “If there was anything there to be found, the villagers would have carried it away long ago.”

 Adolin shrugged.  “I doubt it – the villagers have some superstitions about that area of the forest.”

 “And you believe in these country superstitions?”

 “My father did – he ceased logging operations there after a number of injuries to the workers.  I trust his judgement.”

 “What’s in the forest?” Shallan asked.

 “The villagers report lights wandering in the night … and then there are the legends of the creature in the forest.”

 “The creature?”

 “The Sign of the White Boar wasn’t named for nothing, you know.”

 “It can’t be worse than any bog monster legend back home,” said Shallan thoughtfully, turning this information over in her mind.  Adolin’s curiosity had been piqued; she needed an angle to secure a decision.  “I should still like to see the Forest no matter what mysterious creature inhabits it – perhaps I could then make a study of it.  Unless you are, of course, scared.”  She paused, then added, “I’m sure Jasnah could take me when she comes back.”

 Kaladin sighed; he drew a weary hand over his eyes.  “Miss Davar, there is one word you really must refrain from using around Ad—”

 “I am _not_ scared!” said Adolin, throwing his arms in the air.  “Rouse yourselves early to-morrow!  We go a-questing for lost treasure!”

 

 ***

 

 Adolin was the first to go up.  Kaladin had finished the game with a series of lucky shots, and Adolin had stayed just long enough afterward to finish his drink.

 “If we are to away for the Forest to-morrow, an early start would be best,” he said to Shallan, picking up his abandoned dinner jacket.  He placed his empty glass on the sidebar; the servant who cleaned out the fireplace would collect it in the morning.

 Shallan looked up from her book, and seeing that the Duke was on his feet, got to hers.  “I should like to finish this chapter before I go.  Thank you.  For dinner.  And everything else.”

 He took her hand, and kissed her very lightly on the cheek.  She wanted more, and thought he might have wanted it too, but Kaladin was glaring at them in his usual unpleasant way, arms crossed.  She got the impression that Adolin felt uncomfortable with emotional intimacy – and an innocent peck on the cheek counted as intimacy to him – in front of other people.  Even if it was someone he trusted with his life.   She did not know if this peculiarity afflicted all Anglethi nobles; she had observed that those of lower station in the common rooms of coaching inns had no such inhibitions.

 “I shall bid you good-night, then.  Sleep well, Shallan.” 

 Then he was gone, just like that very first night.  And now she was alone with Kaladin in front of the fire.  Jasnah always said history ran itself in cycles; if it could run in a loop of four thousand years, three days was not out of the realm of possibility, nor divine ability.

 “So the first part of the curse has already been unleashed.  I had thought that being on leave in the country would mean sleeping through the morning, but now here we are, regrettably, stuck with early rising.  Just as we are stuck with you,” said Kaladin, his back to her.  He was pulling the billiard balls out of their pockets and folding down the cover over the baize.

 “You don’t have to come along,” Shallan pointed out.

 “How would you act out the absurd serial whose plot the both of you are so set on, if I were to absent myself?  Besides, I cannot leave you with him alone.  I _am_ the chaperon.”

 “Your manners – or lack of them – will no doubt lead you to the life of the eternal chaperon,” Shallan huffed.  “Do you really think Adolin would lose anything more than a biscuit if he were to spend an hour alone in my company?”

 Kaladin darkened; Shallan was sorely disappointed that his complexion prevented her from being able to tell if a flush coloured his cheeks.   “I wouldn’t put anything past a bog frog like yourself.  Why don’t you go to bed?”

 “Why don’t you?” 

 “I said it first.”

 “I don’t want to!”

 “Why not!”

 Shallan closed her book; she gripped the edges of the leather-bound cover with suddenly shaky hands.  She turned her face away.  Why did arguing with Kaladin have to make her so upset?  She didn’t like arguing; she was never fond of debating with Jasnah, to the Countess’s great dissatisfaction.  She didn’t even like it when other people raised their voices, no matter that they were addressing others in the vicinity and not her.  Arguing, loud voices; it seemed all too much like a prelude to fighting and breaking things, and memories now surfaced – memories whose existence she tried in vain to deny.

 “ _I don’t want_ —” she began, then stopped.  “Because I am afraid that I will have dreams.   And those dreams will give me a taste of what I see in the drift, but they will only be a quarter as colourful and I will only be a quarter as lucid.”

 “Adolin really should know what he is getting himself into.”

 “But you won’t tell him.”

 Kaladin dropped the last section of folding cover over the baize, and flicked down the latch.  He took a breath.  “No.”

 “Thank you,” said Shallan.  She pulled her legs up and tucked her knees under her chin.  It was not very ladylike, but Kaladin did not care about social propriety, so why should she, when there was no-one else to see?  “Have you ever known what it’s like – to drift?”

 “When I was in school, they made us test our arithmetic progressionals on each other … as a practical exercise.”  He grimaced, then looked down at the shiny stripes on his scarred palms, as if his school days held no happy recollections for him.  Shallan did not know: girls didn’t go to school – they had governesses instead.   “We were to find the line between a frolic and a true drift – if the progressionals were calculated correctly, then you would frolic the whole way through.”

 That was horrifying to Shallan.  Ether use was not a game.  The dandies in their parlours treated it as if it was one – but that was bravado:  they were drawn to the danger of it, and they always had up-to-date progressionals for each session, as the pours changed depending on ambient temperature.

 “Did – did you like it?”  She had to ask.

 “Doesn’t everyone?” said Kaladin.  “The only difference between people is if they like it enough to want it again and again.”

 “So I am weak-willed _and_ a wretch, then.”  She rested her chin on her knees, picking at the lace hem of her under-dress.

 “No,” said Kaladin.  “How long have you been a watcher for other people?”

 “Two years and more.”

 “Did you ever try it yourself?”

 “No.”

 “Did you want to?”

  _“Every time.”_

 “Then you are anything but weak.”  Kaladin crossed over to his dinner jacket, which had been draped over the back of the sofa.  He dug through the pocket, and drew out a small, white paper-wrapped lump.  “Here, take this,” he said, offering it to Shallan.

 “What is it?” she asked, as she held out her hand.  He dropped it into her palm.  It was something black wrapped in waxed paper; she could smell a bitter, compost-like scent rising from it, like the dregs of over-brewed tea leaves.

 “It will help you sleep – it’s made from herbal extracts and tree bark.  Chew it thoroughly, and follow it with two cups of water.  Tell your maid to wake you in the morning or you won’t be able to,” he said.  “Oh, and never use it if you’re expecting.”

 “Expecting what?”

 He looked at her.  She waited for him to explain.  He finally spoke: “Just go to bed, Miss Davar.”

 Shallan rose, and placed the book on the low table.  “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, uncharacteristically nervous.  She was not used to being nervous talking to Kaladin, of all people.  She also was not used to him being anything but unpleasant toward her.  Was this the gentleman doctor that Finnie had spoken of?  She could scarcely believe it to be truth when she’d heard about the ‘good Doctor Kaladin’ that afternoon.  “I had wondered what Adolin saw in you.  Perhaps my first impression of you was, um, regrettably hasty.” 

 That _wasn’t_ an apology, Shallan told herself.

 He did not say anything, nor did he seem inclined to. 

 Shallan went to bed.  It was after she had finished her two cups of water and snuggled into the warmed blankets did she realise what Kaladin had meant by ‘expecting’.  Well, she supposed, now he could see what Adolin saw in her.

 

 

***

 

 

 It would have been sunrise when Shallan stumbled into the stable yard very early the next morning, if there was any sun to be seen.  It was another grey day to-day – grey overcast skies that loomed overhead with the humidity of anticipation.   It was a good job that there was no sun to-day, thought Shallan, as she tugged at her tartan shawl and adjusted the strap of her satchel – a whole day spent out-doors would result in her being unavoidably sunburned, even if she wore a bonnet with veil.  She had brought both, just in case.

 The stable yard was already bustling. The grooms and stable boys started work earlier than the residents of the House: horses and official couriers rarely paid much attention to respectable hours.  Adolin was already at the stables, conversing with a groomsman who held the reins of a gelding strapped with a side-saddle.  She approached, yawning.

 “Good morning!” he called out, inexplicably cheery.  “Shallan, may I introduce Mr Karsten, our groundskeeper?  Karsten – Lady Shallan, my personal guest.  Karsten here knows of the part of the forest that you’re looking for: he worked in the logging group years ago, when Father still lived here.”

 Mr Karsten took his cap off, revealing a balding head of sandy brown hair; he bowed to Shallan respectfully.  He was not particularly tall – perhaps he was not a full-blooded Anglethi – and he had a limp that showed when he made a leg; when he spoke she could see he was missing several teeth.  He tugged his cap back on and said, “My lady, I’m told you have the maps?”

 Shallan dug into her satchel and pulled out her copy of Brother Kadash’s map.  She handed it over, and turned to Adolin.  “Are we to ride there?”

 “Yes,” he replied, and gestured to the gelding which stood in patient silence next to Mr Karsten.  “We found an old side-saddle for you since we couldn’t expect you to ride astride.  Have you much experience with riding?”

 “I have ridden ponies at my father’s estate.  I should think a horse would be no different,” Shallan said casually.  It was much smaller than the giant white beast a groomsman was bringing out now, but it did rather seem a long way off the ground.

 “Well, you should get up and we’ll adjust the saddle for you,” said Adolin.  He took the reins of the gelding and led it over to the stepped mounting block.  Shallan followed, mounted the steps, hitched up the back of her skirts, and hauled herself into the saddle.   It was indeed a very high place.  She could see over the top of Adolin’s head, and Mr Karsten’s head, and the backs of horses being taken to pasture.

 “Well,” she said, hoping he could not sense the timidness in her voice.  “This isn’t so bad.”

 “Um.  If you could pull up your skirts?” said Adolin, very hesitantly, looking up at Shallan.  “The saddle was made for someone else, and must be adjusted to your size.”

 “Oh – of course.”  Shallan yanked up the outer skirt, and more gently, rolled up the hem of her underskirts.  Doing so revealed stockinged legs and walking boots and the curved double horns of the side-saddle’s pommel.   “Take your time.”

 Adolin flushed; he turned away and tentatively began to adjust the buckles and straps of the saddle.   “If you are to be riding often, I would commission a side-saddle for your size.  Neither Jasnah nor my royal aunt ride, and even if they did, their, ah, leg sizes wouldn’t fit you particularly comfortably.”  The double pommel was adjusted to be higher up, and the stirrups were shortened.  They now felt more comfortable – this saddle must have been sized for a woman with longer legs.   Adolin avoided touching her, even though every bit of flesh was covered by woollen stocking.  Whenever a knuckle brushed against her accidentally, she could see that the assured regularity of his movements wavered with the slightest hesitation.

 Finally, Adolin was finished, and he gave her a short bow.  Shallan smiled at him in thanks; she dropped the hem of her skirt to cover herself, and tugged on the reins.  The gelding started ambling at a gentle pace.  He was taller than the shaggy coated ponies of Loch Davar, but he had the placid temperament compatible with unpractised riders.  By the time Shallan had returned from her wide circle of the stables and coach house, she saw that Adolin had mounted his own horse – the great white beast that had been brought out earlier – and Kaladin had appeared; he also had a horse.  She observed that Kaladin managed his seat without a mounting block.  Karsten had his own mount, a brown mule with a white muzzle and belly. 

 They followed the coach road leading southward from the estate to the Kholinshire Forest.  It was a wide road, well-made with a raised centre and rain ditches on either side – they could easily all four of them ride abreast if they wanted.  Karsten took the lead; Shallan and Adolin on his white stallion followed, and Kaladin last.

 Shallan saw that Adolin wore his fur-collared overcoat over a fashionable tailed riding coat in Kholin blue; she felt a self-conscious twinge: she had no riding habit of her own, nor proper riding boots.  She and Jasnah had filled their travelling trunks with books and papers during their travels; she had nothing appropriate for country pursuits and had therefore settled for her hard-wearing woollen carriage dress with her tartan.  Kaladin, she noticed, had on his everyday suit under a plain travellers’ overcoat.  He had a pair of bulging panniers and a bedroll strapped to his saddle; there were also two musket sheaths on either side of his horse.  He had come well prepared – was it possible that he put more stock to the existence of curses than he had previously indicated?

 “Adolin – is your horse a plough horse?” she asked.  If it was going to be a much longer ride than the journey to Courtlea, perhaps it would pass faster if they had diverting conversation.

 “Sureblood?” he laughed, and patted his horse’s neck.  “No, his kind were once the horses ridden by the knights of old.”

 “But there are no knights anymore.”

 “That is why we use horses of his weight for our cannonry,” explained Adolin.  “They are quite hardy beasts, you see: they don’t tend to shy at powderflash.”

 Shallan glanced backward.  Kaladin was within eavesdropping distance.  “I notice,” she said, “our good Doctor looks as if he has trouble with his seat.”

 “You have been to Kharbranth, Miss Davar: you must be aware that horses are rare in a place where grain must be brought in by ship,” Kaladin said.

 “Oh my, I had forgotten that you had been educated in Kharbranth.  I often find myself forgetting that you had been educated at all.  A rather common mistake, I assume.” 

 “Hm,” Kaladin grunted.  “Well, if I have trouble keeping my seat, your horse has trouble keeping up.   I suppose Adolin chose a smaller horse as there will be no mounting blocks in the forest, but it is quite inconvenient that it must take two paces for every one of ours.”

 “Not everyone sees the appeal in great size, Doctor,” Shallan replied serenely.  “I, for one, am rather glad not to have been bestowed with, um, Anglethi proportions.”

 “You wouldn’t rather be our height and see us eye to eye?” asked Adolin.

 “No, not really.  My stature does have its conveniences, you know.”

 “Does it?” Kaladin glanced at her with amused scepticism.  “Whatever might they be, Miss Davar?”

 “Why, if I fall behind, it would be no trouble for you to carry me on your back.”

 “What a ridiculous suggestion,” said Kaladin with a scornful tone.  “I cannot imagine any reason why I should do that.”

 “Because you value the spirit of charitability, of course.”

 “I think you mistake me for Adolin, Miss Davar,” said Kaladin.   He made an unpleasantly indecipherable grunting sound and nudged his horse ahead of hers.

 “If he won’t carry you, you can always ride with me,” said Adolin, amiably.  “Sureblood can easily take two.”

 They rode at a steady gait past fields and pastures; very occasionally they passed carriages or carthorses or other riders, but other than their conversation and the sound of their horses’ shod hooves crunching on gravel, it was quiet and still.   A white mist patchily blanketed the ground; hayricks rose above the clouds here and there like the lonely aeries of mountain peaks.  Shallan saw figures in the misted fields, small people in the distance: there were men with beards and shoddily hand-dyed red kerchiefs tied around their necks, hoeing the crop rows; there were also women with red headscarves following with baskets.

 Marshpeople.  They were not as tall as Anglethis; they were, on average, not even as tall as Scots – mainland Scots like the McValams or the McAbrials, not the pale giants of the Unkalakney Islands.   She had expected to see more while travelling with Jasnah, but the marshpeople hadn’t been allowed inside coaching house common rooms; she had only glimpsed them cleaning stables when getting into the carriage in the mornings.

 “Are there many marshpeople in the area?” she asked.

 Adolin turned toward her, a curious expression on his face.  “Did Jasnah lecture at you with the horror tales of the uprising she’s so fond of frightening everyone with?”

 “Yes she did – but you know Jasnah; I was, in fact, wondering how you managed to feed all the villages in the area.  In the north, we only have a few marshpeople labourers, but we also have fewer people per mile – outside the cities.”

 “The numbers escape me,” Adolin mused, “but I think out of all the Duchies, Kholinshire has the fewest marshpeople.”

 “So everyone believes Jasnah even though they all seem reluctant to admit it?   Do they just not want to give Jasnah the satisfaction of knowing she’s right – once again?”

 “Well – not really,” said Adolin.  “Father thinks oxen make for better labourers, and my aunt prefers mechanicals.  She’s converted most of Kholinshire Park to run their mills on water.”  He paused, then glanced at her, unsure for a moment.  “My royal cousin doesn’t like foreigners around; he thinks they’ll try and stab him while he’s sleeping or something.  So we got rid of most of them in the City.  We can discourage buying contracts, but independent land-owners do what they will.”

 “What do you think, sir?”

 “I, honestly, never really thought about it.  But I do suppose, for the rest of the country, the marshers’ labour is the source of a lot of Anglethi wealth.”

 “You think the indentures are a good thing?”

 “It’s – complicated,” admitted Adolin.  He stopped for a moment, gathering his words; his fingers twisted Sureblood’s reins into knotted spirals.  “The sheep,” he said at last, “are sheared by marshers in Roionshire, and they are turned into woven cloth by marshers in Sebarialshire, and are sewn into clothes in Kholinshire, so I can wear this coat.”  He plucked at the lapels of his blue riding coat.

 “It seems straightforward to me,” remarked Shallan.

 “The Port Authority,” Adolin continued, “charges export tariffs for the King.  The King pays for the bridges and roads and locks that the sheep are driven on, and the crates of cloth are barged through.  The transport network would not exist without the goods, and we would not have goods without transport.  Nothing is done solely by the good-will of the Dukes, for the good of the Kingdom.”

 “So it’s a matter of politics, then?  I am unfamiliar with such matters: we Scots have our own Parliament – though its effectiveness is debatable – and Jasnah never cared to explain the details of Anglethi politics.”

 “Everything is politics.  In the end, what it means is this:  if the King cannot keep the money flowing, the Dukes will have little reason to hail him King.”

 This was very interesting.  Shallan had always thought herself an outsider to the world of politics, which was mostly inhabited by men.  Women could – and did – have their influence, and they could possess money or land, or sign their own contracts if their rank was high enough – but it was never direct power, nor direct decision making: it was always second-hand power usually bestowed by a high-ranking father or husband, or power delivered through male proxy-retainers.  She had not expected to be informed so candidly about matters of power; it was a show of trust that Adolin could speak to her with such casual ease. 

 “If the King cannot be King,” she said, “would the Dukes hail your father instead?”

 “The young Prince of Anglekar will not reach his majority in years … so likely, yes.” 

 “Then – you would be the Prince Kholinar in your father’s stead?”

 “Yes,” said Adolin.  He did not seem very pleased at the prospect.  “Shallan?  Is there something wrong?”

 His expression of distaste at the idea of being a Prince brought to mind a conversation Shallan had had a few days earlier.  There had been that very same look; a similar flash of vulnerability had been revealed to her, in the way Adolin’s normally smiling mouth had tugged downward at the corner.   She was reminded of it in that instant; it was familiar, and now she recognised it.

 “Jasnah didn’t want to be a Princess; she never explained why.”

 “Oh,” said Adolin; he hesitated, then drew a breath.  “Oh.  If – if you are ever a Princess, you shan’t be made to do anything you don’t want.  I promise – _truly_ – you should never be placed in such a position – I would not let it happen.  I can guarantee your safety, your protection—”

 “You needn’t worry, sir,” Shallan cut in; coldness tinged her voice.  “I can guarantee my own safety.”

 “But—”

  _“Please.”_   Shallan gripped the reins of her horse tightly.  “I shan’t be locked away again.” 

 She wanted to run – it was her natural instinct to do so when she was anxious and frightened as she was now – she wanted to go away to another place – any other place, it scarcely mattered where – with the desperate hope that when she came back, everything would be as it was: a silent house instead of Father arguing with Malise, Jushu awake and alert, Balat playing with his pups.  But her legs were caught up in the crescent shaped pommels of the side-saddle; they were firmly locked into position.   She could not run.  She knew it.  Sometimes there was nowhere to run. 

 “Again?”

 “It’s not important,” she said.  She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly; air hissed in between clenched teeth.  She struggled to compose herself.  “Adolin – I do not find you wanting in your feeling.   Truly, I do not.  I am appreciative of your concern; your offer is a credit to your character.”

 “Oh,” he looked at her, then looked down at his hands.  He looked as if he were going to say something, but he seemed to perceive that there was something she didn’t want to talk about, something she didn’t feel comfortable sharing with him.  Not yet.  “Well.  Thank you?”

 “Jasnah turned out perfectly all right, you know,” Shallan whispered.  She did not know if Adolin heard it.  She was half talking to herself.

 The rest of the ride was subdued.  Adolin picked at the stitched seams of his riding gloves, while Shallan looked around at the fields and approaching forest.  She could not draw on the jolting up-and-down of a horse in motion; it took effort to stay in the seat even with the convenience and support of a side-saddle.  She doubted that she could draw or even open her wooden pen box without scattering a trail of chalk nubs on the gravelled road.

 

***

 

 They followed the main road until they saw the Forest.  When they reached it, they took a lesser used side road – it was half the width of the King’s Royal Road – that linked small villages and farming communities to the markets of the City.  This was the road they would take before they would find the logging trail that cut a path through the Forest to the creek marked on the map.

 It was mid-morning when they found the start of the logging trail: it was easier than they‘d expected – Shallan had thought it would be overgrown since it had not been in use apart from the brief failure of a logging enterprise in Adolin’s father’s time.  But the local villagers had taken their wood from the forest here, and cleared the ground in front of the path:  they were entitled, as tenants of the ducal estate, to take trees for warming their homes and cooking their food.  The trees on the edge of the forest-line were young and small – these villagers had gone into the Forest and taken the larger trees lining the edge of the trail.  The trail, for the most part, was wide enough for them to ride horseback, and lacked large dangling branches that could strike them in the face.

 After a certain point, Karsten, who had the lead, gestured for the party to halt. 

 “My lord,” he said, turning his mule around, “We must leave the path here, to find the creek.  There is no trail – you must walk from here and lead the horses, and if the ground is too steep for them, you must either take a long detour for better ground or leave them where they are.”

 “Is it better not to leave the horses on the path?” asked Adolin.

 “Someone would steal them,” said Kaladin dryly.  “Perhaps not yours – a recognisable officer’s horse could not find a buyer quickly, but mine and Miss Davar’s would be taken by any unscrupulous traveller.  And with my own Anglethi proportions, I sincerely doubt Miss Davar should offer to carry me, as per her noble sense of charitability.”

 “I have been told – quite recently, in fact – that I am anything but weak,” replied Shallan, rolling her eyes.  “Take the horses with us, they have more supplies on them than we could carry on foot.”

 They let Karsten go first, leading the mule, who followed obligingly.   It was not easy for the horses, especially Adolin’s Sureblood, who was so large that the underbrush scraped against his coat whenever he had to push through a patch to follow his master.  Shallan soon put on her bonnet and veil to protect her face.  It was dark and humid amidst the trees – she was not afraid of risking a sunburn – but Kaladin, in front of her, paid no regard to her presence; he let little branches swing by as he pressed ahead, and Shallan found being whipped with twigs eventually made her feel quite irritable.

 After an hour of walking, they found the creek.  It meant that they had gone too far, and had to double back – the site they were looking for was in between the creek and the trail.  They let the horses drink; they all, gentlemen and horses alike, looked quite bedraggled from being scraped by every bush and tree trunk they had passed.  Shallan felt rather limp, too.  She was not a particularly athletic person, and although she could walk the several mile circuit of the Loch Davar estate without trouble, the uneven downward footing to the low ground of the creek was more sustained exertion than she had experienced in months.

 The gentlemen, though slightly perspiring, looked much better than her, she thought.  Adolin and Kaladin had taken off their overcoats and jackets, preferring to hang them from their horses’ pommels.  They had, the both of them, stripped to waistcoats and shirtsleeves; Adolin had loosened his neckcloth and pushed up his sleeves.  Karsten, a groundskeeper by trade, looked quite unaffected.  He wore his cap and had his coat on still; it was a patchily dyed grey-green mottle that blended in quite well with the Forest.

 To Shallan’s great relief, they broke for luncheon instead of backtracking to the trail.  Karsten’s panniers had food from the Kholinar Court kitchen; they feasted on a more genuine huntsman’s lunch than had been served at The Sign of the White Boar.   Kaladin had started a fire and was now boiling water for tea in a narrow cylindrical travel kettle.

 “Do you suppose we’ll actually see a white boar?” asked Shallan, as she folded her bread around sliced sausage and pickle.

 “No-one even knows if it’s actually a boar,” said Kaladin.  “It’s probably nothing.  Either that or a white deer.”

 “And the lights at night?”

 “Probably villagers.”

 “In the middle of the night?  Whatever might they be up to?”

 Kaladin was throwing handfuls of leaves into the small fire he had made; he looked up.  His eyebrows rose upward and disappeared into the messy fringe over his forehead.  “Are you being serious?”

 “Aren’t I always?”

 “Then I shall tell you when you’re older.”

 “You can tell Adolin – he’s older than me.  Then I will ask Adolin,” Shallan said, a capricious smile sliding across her face.

 Adolin swallowed his mouthful of cheese and bread.  “Tell me what?” he said.

 “There are fruit pies,” said Kaladin.  “Underneath the ham slices, in the lunch basket.  Shallan wasn’t going to tell you because she wanted them all to herself.”

 

 ***

 

 They spent another two hours after lunch zig-zagging back and forth between the creek and trail, trying to find the location of the long-lost pre-Vorin structures.  It was dim and wet with the canopy overhead, blocking what little sunlight that shone through the grey clouds; the leaves dripped from the previous day’s rain onto Shallan’s bonnet.  Her boots squelched on the rotting leaves underfoot, and she knew her underskirts were in a terrible state; she had tried to keep hold of her skirts, but had she needed her hands to lead the horse and keep her balance navigating the treacherous slope of the creek banks.

 She had noticed they were going in an up-slope direction now: the ground was becoming firmer, and though the undergrowth was as dense as it had been, there were very large trees now – older growth – and the space between them more generous than she had seen before. 

 “Here now, my lord,” called Karsten from ahead. 

They halted again.  This was just the last of many stops where they had gathered together, paced in a circle looking for any evidence of human structures, and continued ahead upon not finding a thing.  Was this to be another disappointment?  Shallan had not complained – it had been her suggestion to go looking for lost treasure, after all – and she was glad that Adolin was too good-humoured to blame others in the event of an empty-handed return.

 “What is it?” said Shallan.  Her gelding nuzzled at the back of her bonnet.

 “My lady, there are some stone formations around here.  If you would like to take a look?” Karsten said, gesturing with his arm.

 It wasn’t much to look at – there was no clearing, no perfectly circular meadow, and no mystical fortress that did not appear in view unless one happened to glance at it out of the corner of one’s eye.  There was a stone outcrop, draped in vines and moss, and a few other lumps of non-magical nature surrounding it.  It was an immense disappointment, and Shallan scowled.

 “Is this it?” she asked, tugging at her gelding’s reins.  She was sweating from walking for the last three hours, and the ride from the House had taken that long, and now there was a ride back to look forward to – that would be equally as tedious.  She was hot; her veil stuck to her; she had done it all in a heavy woollen dress.   She stamped at the ground irritably. 

 She stubbed her toe.  Something rolled away from her foot.

  _Wait._

 Roots did not roll away. 

 She dropped to her knees in the leaf litter and began digging, scrabbling through the humus with frantic urgency.  She found it – at last.  It was a bit of masoned stone, rough all around, except for one small edge, which was smooth.

 “It’s here,” she said.

 Adolin tugged at his neckcloth.  “A rock?”

 “Yes.  A rock.  A beautiful, wonderful rock.”

 

 ***

 

 The light had slowly faded from the overcast sky by the time they had cleared a section of vines from the central stone outcrop.  It was dimmer now – not dark enough that they could not see where they were going – but the light could not be relied on to last for more than a few more hours.  Shallan began to feel concern that Adolin would insist they use the last few hours of light to turn back to the House.

 There was a bare patch in the outcrop left by their removing of great swaths of hanging moss – it was more than an outcrop now.  There had been a cylindrical stone building here once; it was squat with a gently pointed cone of a roof, and it had been overgrown on all sides by creeping vines and saplings that its shape was difficult to discern unless one stepped away and saw that there was a regular shape hidden among the irregularly distributed trees.

 The walls of the building were crumbling from years of neglect now; there were gaps where dampness and moss and persistent questing saplings had forced open small cracks into large ones.  Winters in southern Anglekar were not as harsh as they were in Scotland, but they must have had a true winter once per decade or so – and Shallan knew that even one cycle of freezing and thawing was enough to require yearly maintenance of the Loch Davar courtyard, when they had had the money for it.  This building, though it looked like it had been built from a seamless yellow-brown stone, had been here for hundreds of years.  Perhaps more than a thousand, or even two or three – Shallan could not possibly begin to guess.

 There were no chisel marks on the stone walls, only naturally formed cracks.  There were no joints where mortar had been laid; it had been built – or dropped by the hand of the Almighty – as one solid piece in the middle of a forest, as unbelievable as it seemed.   Shallan circled the structure, as close as she could: trees and bushes had grown around the base of it, but it would not be impossible to take a rough estimate of its circumference if one counted paces carefully and made allowances of perhaps an extra yard in diameter on each side.

 That was when she found a place where roots and water had created a gap, large enough for a man to enter if he ducked his head and turned obliquely to keep his shoulders from scraping the edges.

 “Light!  Candles!  Has anyone remembered to bring any?” she called.  Adolin and Kaladin came at the sound of her voice.  Candles were quickly found in a pannier and lit with a clockwork fire starter – they pushed aside the curtain of drooping moss and ducked their heads – they entered the hollow of the holy stone.

 It was a cylindrical chamber, dark and echoing; there was at their feet a circular gallery with a crumbling stone rail – the gallery did not go all the way around, but led downward and downward into the darkness.   It was black inside, an empty, endless blackness that seemed to swallow light and sound alike; it smelled of damp and rotting earth; the air she breathed was still and cold.  It did not seem holy at all: there was neither Light nor Grace to be found – how could anyone have built it for the glory of the Almighty, He who shone from above?

 Shallan led the way, candle raised in one trembling hand.  Adolin followed behind her; he took her free hand with one of his.

 “Go slowly,” he warned.  “Feel before you step.  If you sense something give way, don’t dare let go.”

 They descended into the spiralling blackness. 

 There was a floor at the bottom – to Shallan’s relief.  She had thought that they might walk and walk and become lost for ever into the welling emptiness.  But there was a floor; it was littered with dried leaves and twigs and the crunching skeletons of nameless small creatures, and underneath that, there were square bits of a mosaic that had fallen apart into its clinking component tiles. 

 But the walls – oh the walls!  The wall – it was but one wall, as Shallan saw – was a mural, a single great painting that wrapped all the way around the circular interior in a panoramic scene, depicting a battle of God and Heralds and Kings and Knights and Champions.   It was magnificent – it was tens of feet high and the top was lost in the dark – and it was beautifully detailed.  Every Knight and Champion and supporting soldier had an individual face.  Some of the faces were distinctly feminine.  The eyes and swords and armour of several of the closer Champions had been coated with a varnish of powdered mica – it reflected the candlelight and almost seemed to glow. 

 “We need more candles,” breathed Shallan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case you haven't figured it out already: the origin of some of Shallan's insta-hate for Kaladin. It's not just him being a grump, it's also her. Shallan, for most of her life, has been the "most popular girl at school", where she's the highest ranking. When she's not, she is usually the funniest, cleverest person in the room that everyone ends up liking. Yeah I know, but this is from her SA canon-personality. Kaladin, when she first meets him, doesn't care about her rank, which she finds confusing in a bad way. He can also snark as well as she can, which she finds threatening. Because "social Shallan" is her public face that shes hides behind, without it - or when it doesn't work - she thinks she has nothing else other than "sad Shallan", which she pretends doesn't exist. And she doesn't want to confront her issues. She is trying to rationalise her dislike towards him when she thinks about how rude he is, or how ugly his eyebrows are.
> 
> The subtext:  
> \- Kaladin changes out of his daytime clothes and carries sleeping pills because he is starting to become less hostile towards Shallan. He makes a joke about her drooling on his coat, but he would really feel bad if he caused an instant relapse by walking in smelling like ether. Shallan just sees the joke.  
> \- Shallan and the church infirmary was supposed to mirror the pardons for Vathah and Gaz in WoR. Kaladin and Adolin don't know the real reason, Kaladin thought she was praying the whole time she visited the church.  
> \- "It seems that charitable people are often rewarded with equal charity.” - mirrors the conversation with Kadash. Shallan is trying to figure out what it takes to buy Kaladin's help. It doesn't work that way! You have to earn it!  
> \- "If you are to be putting each other – and me – into undignified positions" - Adolin pretends to be more obtuse than he is. He laughs along but the idea of "undignified positions" makes him uncomfortable so he changes the subject to dessert. Normally he would be fine with joking about it, but he really like likes Shallan at this point and the idea of being in an undignified position with her is actually possible enough to make him nervous.  
> \- "hidden treasure in the forest" - supposed to mirror Urithiru in the Shattered Plains. Adolin isn't aware that he's being manipulated into it, but Kaladin knows. Adolin is, however, pretty genre savvy in thinking there's a curse with the treasure.  
> \- "no doubt lead you to the life of the eternal chaperon" - Shallan jokes on Kaladin being single forever. Chaperones were usually spinster relatives.  
> \- Kharbranth Academy is the worst boarding school ever. Imagine it run by Miss Minchin or Miss Trunchbull or Mr Brocklehurst. Hazing and caning all over the place. A lot of the "exercises" have a purpose according to the administration, though. Dosing each other with ether is supposed to weed out the weak and desensitise the rest.  
> \- "Two years and more" - this is when it hits Kaladin that Shallan is around the same age, or younger than Tien. Tien in this AU died at age 16, when he volunteered with a fake name at 15.  
> \- "He did not say anything” - What he really wanted to say was “I had wondered what Adolin saw in you. Perhaps my first impression of you was regrettably hasty.” But Kaladin doesn't like apologising or being wrong either. Remember his earlier conversation with Shallan "You are ... right"/"I endeavour to make a habit of it." :-)  
> \- "now he could see what Adolin saw in her." - Kaladin can tell they're both noobs, if you know what I mean.  
> \- Ryshadium are considered big horses that are more intelligent and easier trained than other breeds in this AU.  
> \- Shallan snarks out of habit rather than actual malice. She does not hate Kaladin that much anymore. She doesn't know if Kaladin can tell or not.  
> \- Marshpeople are humans in this AU. The Veden Highprinces are Scottish clan chiefs, and Horneaters are from the Unkalakney Islands, which is Orkney in this universe.  
> \- Adolin is politically more astute than Shallan expects. He knows the Dukes want cheap indentured labour to make money, but the productivity is spread around to lots of other people too, like shepherds and weavers, and it means farmers can afford to wear warm coats.  
> \- "Prince of Anglekar" - Elhokar's son, the crown prince. Dalinar is "Prince Kholinar", a non-hereditary court title that has no lands associated with it. It means that the Dukes have to bow to him, while he doesn't have to waste time managing an estate.  
> \- "I shan't be locked away again" - scene from end of WoR. Adolin says "you shan't be made to anything you don't want", it implies that Jasnah was forced into something, and no one protected her.  
> \- "Then I shall tell you when you're older" - Shallan can guess, but she's messing with Kaladin.  
> 


	10. X

 Shallan was copying the mural on the section of wall closest to her, drawing by the light of a candle Adolin held aloft.  She had set another candle onto the floor after sweeping away the leaves with a foot; a few dribbles of warm wax on the bottom kept it from toppling over.  Kaladin paced back and forth, stopping occasionally to inspect the detail of the mural and the interior structure of the cylindrical stone chamber.

 “Have you noticed there are women Knights?” she said, head bowed over her sketchbook.

 “I never heard that mentioned in church,” said Adolin, shifting the candle to his other hand.  It was melting steadily, and Shallan had not remembered to pack a chimney lamp.  It would be approaching sunset outside, and she did not look forward to the prospect of finding their way back to the logging trail in the dark. 

 “I read that the Courtlea church was built because this temple wasn’t suitable for a Vorin King.  That could have been one of the reasons for its being deemed inappropriate,” Shallan replied.  “Perhaps it was because the idea of a woman with a sword frightens men.”

 “A woman with a sword wouldn’t frighten me,” said Adolin.

 “Really?  Not even a woman who knows how to handle one?”

 The candlelight wavered.  If only the chamber were brighter – then Shallan could see for herself what shade of pink coloured Adolin’s face.  He was rather a good looking man, but when he blushed because of something she said – _when he blushed for her_ – that made him all the more charming.  It was his being so honest – and earnest – in his affections that made him infinitely superior to the static engravings of handsome princes that graced the frontispieces of many a novel. 

 “I think,” he replied, “the world would be a much better place if those who held edged weapons knew what they were doing with them.”

 “A much safer place, too,” Shallan said.

 Kaladin strode toward them, candle in hand.  “Did you know that there are windows fifteen feet up?  I saw them from the stairs.  The glass is still there, but there’s only soil behind it – and there’s no door that I can see.”

 “Perhaps there’s another level underneath this one,” Shallan mused, sliding open the lower second compartment of her pen box.  “How much do you know of ancient folk tales?”

 “Only the ones of questionable nature that have been turned into tavern songs,” Kaladin answered evenly.

 It was time for a lecture then, thought Shallan.  “Well, there are a number of folk legends from here and many countries on the Continent.  Even the non-Vorin nations have such tales – one about the end of a cycle of years, the last cycle before this one.  When the end closes and the beginning opens, or however poetically they phrase it, the Almighty cleanses the world and restarts it.”

 Adolin spoke: “You are talking about the Great Storm?  That is why the Roionshire coast has all those little seashells miles inland.  And in church, the Ardents always said it was a punishment for men’s sins.”

 “The Great Storm and the Great Flood that came after.  This building could have been constructed as a tower and the rest is buried underground.  And if the Almighty was in the habit of punishing men for sinning, you would not be able to enter a coaching house without seeing men being struck down left and right.”

 “A seamless tower built thousands of years ago?” Kaladin said.  “Well, they must have had arts that we have lost.  I saw a lantern on the wall and when I opened it up, there was no oil reservoir – only a piece of coloured glass inside.”

 “Speaking of lanterns,” said Adolin, “have we got any more lights?   My candle is almost out.”

 “I brought a box, but we must ration them.”  Kaladin pulled a clockwork fire starter from his belt. “I can go and fetch some more if you’d like.”

 “No – I shall bring some down, and see how the horses are faring,” said Adolin.  “Sureblood is well-trained but I shouldn’t like to see the others eat something they oughtn’t.  And Karsten still has the lunch baskets – would anyone like a pie?”  He set the stub of candle next to the one at Shallan’s side, and dusted off his hands.  “No pie?  Oh – more for me then.”

 Now it was Kaladin holding up the candle, only he wasn’t very good or particularly helpful: he paced around and his little sphere of light bobbed around; it was rather distracting to Shallan.  She was scratching away, trying to copy as much as she could before Adolin decided the party should better return to the House.  A thought occurred to her.

“Doctor, when you were looking at the windows, did you see what the mural showed near the top of the wall?” she asked.  At her own height, she could only see Knights and soldiers holding banners. 

 “There is a sky above, with curving clouds and lightning.  And there are red stars with the same reflective paint of the Knights’ swords,” said Kaladin.  “I couldn’t see anything else.  You would need a scaffold to properly inspect it – if you could fit one through the gap in the wall.”

 Shallan pondered at this; her busy hands mechanically shaded the Knights’ armour and outlined the double-eye design of their shields.  “It could very well be a representation of the Great Storm.”

 She worked from section to section of the wall, dripping down wax and moving the candle – it was burning down now – as needed.  Kaladin did not try to make conversation; he seemed to understand that she was concentrating on something she considered important – even if he thought the whole idea of the lost treasure a feather-brained girl’s frivolous snipe hunt, indulged by a lovesick fool.  There was surety to her movements: she did not waste time on preliminary sketches in hard lead, nor on model studies to catch each detail correctly before she started the main piece.  No, these were all rough impressions to have the shapes down more than anything else; each charcoal stroke was swift and deliberate; there was no leeway for mistakenly placed lines.

 She did not know how much time passed.  It was hard to tell when one delved into the mental realm of artistic perspective.  There was time – it did not halt, or cease to exist.  Its relevance just became less important; it faded into the background, like hunger or fatigue, when one had other things to think of – such as the way reflected light bounced back and forth between adjacent surfaces and split into a myriad of other colours, or the way a seemingly brown stone wall was made up of small particles of yellow and grey sand.

 Time passed.  The candle neared the end of its wick.  Adolin had not returned.

 She heard muffled sounds outside.  Kaladin at once became alert; he straightened and looked up toward the spiralling stairs and the gap in the wall. 

 There came the crack of a gunshot. 

 Shallan’s charcoal scratched across the page, leaving a black scrawl across her half-finished drawing.  The tip of the pencil splintered off into little powdery fragments.  She looked at Kaladin. 

  _Crack!_

 Kaladin hesitated, then shoved his candle at her; hot wax dripped across her sleeve.  “I’m going up.  Stay here and don’t come out.  Blow out the light when I’m gone, and _stay quiet!”_

 “You’re going to leave me here alone?”

 He glanced upward, then looked at her, sitting on the floor with her dress greyed with dust and stained with mud.  He came to a decision, then reached around to the back of his waistcoat.  His hands worked for a second – she heard a rustle – and he had out a pistol with a plain wooden stock and a barrel the length of her hand.  He had a small twist of paper too, and he used it to prime the pan; the rest of the paper he pushed down the barrel.  He took a pencil from her open pen box and rammed it in. 

 “One shot.  Don’t waste it,” he grunted, as he tossed it onto her lap.  “Pull down that – _there_ – before you shoot.  I’ll call for you when I come back – so even if you are tempted to, _do not storming shoot me_. _”_

 Then he was gone, and she could hear the stomp of his boots on the stairs as he took them four at a time, and she was alone with a candle on the floor that was now a small puddle of wax, and another that was dripping in her hand.  She gathered her papers and stuffed everything into her satchel, picked up the gun, and then – she blew out the last light.

 It was dark and it was still in that empty chamber.  Every little dried leaf seemed to make a scratching sound that echoed all around when she twitched a leg, like the skittering claws of crab-things in buckets at the Kharbranth harbour market.  She could hear the crackle of gunfire from above; there must be a number of armed men outside.  She sat with her tartan around her shoulders, and her eyes adjusted to the greyness; it was almost like the dreadful anticipation of waiting at Jushu’s bedside, wondering if this time she had gotten it wrong and he would never wake up.

 There was a light from above, a steady light that spread a circle of glowing yellow wider than her candle could have done.  Two voices, on the gallery above – but neither of them were Adolin or Kaladin.

 She got to her feet, trembling; her right hand tightly gripped the handle of the gun, the left hand held the strap of her satchel.  They were coming closer, coming down the stairs.

  _“Did you see the girl?”_ she heard.  _“Check down here – I must go back to help the others secure the area.”_   That voice – had she heard it before?  It seemed like she had, but her mind was frantic with fear, she could not think with clarity; she just wanted to run home – to the House, to Scotland – she could not care which home it was.  She could not see a face to the voices; they were behind a curve of the stair.  

 The light bobbed downward.  There was nowhere to run.  Kaladin had said there were no doorways – the windows opened onto soil – they were underground.   She almost laughed at that; she was becoming hysterical – and fresh country air, as recommended by any doctor, would have been the perfect cure for it.  She could not attach the face to a voice she was certain she had heard yesterday; somehow she could now remember that morbid, idle thought from the journey with Jasnah – when she had mused on Kholinar Court’s being the site of her final rest.  

 There was nowhere to run in this chamber, nowhere to hide: she would be found.  She made up her mind, and her resolve firmed – the men were outside, and they had guns, and they were fighting.  There were Knights painted on the wall who were women, women who fought just as well as any man.  She had no sword, and she would not know how to handle one if she did – but she had a gun, and anybody could handle that.  It was just point and shoot, wasn’t it?

 She crept slowly to the stairs.  Her hands were shaking as the light grew closer and closer and revealed a man holding a chimney lamp by its handle.  He could not see her outside its circle of luminescence; his eyes were dazzled by the light it shed and hers had adjusted to the darkness.  She aimed the gun at him, and pulled the trigger.

  _Click._

 Nothing happened.  She tried again.  _Storms!_

 He was on the very last step now.  In desperation, she shoved the gun, barrel down, under the neckline of her dress and into her bodice.  Her hands twisted the straps of the satchel and she spun it around, building momentum.  The man with the lamp took one last step; he heard the whistle of moving air, and he turned to the side where Shallan had hidden herself under the curve of the stair.  Shallan hit him in the face with her satchel full of books.  The man cried out and stumbled and fell to his knees; the lantern dropped to the ground.  It did not shatter as she had expected it to, but rolled around on its circular tin base, leaking oil. 

 Shallan retreated, swinging the satchel, as the man panted on the ground.  He was reaching to his side – was that a dagger?  He blocked the stairs; she could not leap over him in her woollen skirts and trembling legs.   So she charged, and hit him again on the head, with her satchel. 

 This time, the hit was not as accurate, but he roared in pain and he reached for her and now they were rolling on the dusty floor, each trying to get a grip on the other.  Shallan scratched and kicked at him; she tore at his clothes and his face and whatever she could grab, while he tried to pin her down with the weight of his body.  She felt pain in a line down her ribs, and she gasped; she saw his arm raised to strike again.  She rolled to the side, felt the cold press of the gun at her chest, and drew it out.

 The thing at the back – whatever it was – that Kaladin had told her to pull.  A gun wasn’t just point and shoot: you had to cock it first.  She had not seen it in the darkness that first time – it had been only seconds ago – and she had not remembered to pull it.  

 The man jerked back when he saw the gun.  He was not fast enough. Shallan fired.

  _Crack!_

 It was so loud in the echoing chamber that her ears rang with the sound of it; a choking grey smoke poured out, smelling of dirty stovepipes and the cheap incense that was supposed to keep away the bogflies.  Her hand hurt from the unexpected kick; she dropped the gun to the floor.  The man was on his back, struggling to get up – she saw his hand scrabbling on the floor for his dagger; he was gulping for breath, and a red stain spread across the front of his shirt. 

 She swung the satchel up into the air and brought it down onto his face one final time.  She did not think about it; she did not feel triumph, or satisfaction, or fear.  She felt nothing.  It was probably for the best.  His head fell backward; there was something broken inside of him, but still he was not dead, and she could not tell how close he was to dying. 

 So.  It had come to this.

  _Again._

 Shallan dropped the satchel to the ground and bent over to collect her discarded tartan; it had fallen during the struggle.  She shook it out, and pieces of dried leaves and moulted beetle shells fell off it; she folded it.  Three yards of wool, brought from Scotland in a chest that smelled like lavender.  She thought of home as she folded the tartan over and over, until it was a square bundle layered thickly.  It could not be so bad if one had a tartan that smelled like lavender.  

 She knelt next to the man lying on the floor, whose wounded chest gasped in spurts of red, just as his open mouth gasped with reddened foam.  She pressed the tartan over his face, covering his unseeing eyes with their eyelids that flickered like the wings of Balat’s butterflies.  She did not sing to him as she had done for her father. 

 Time passed.  The overturned chimney lamp dimmed, flickered, and sputtered out as the remaining oil was burned away.  Kaladin did not return. 

 Shallan sat with her back to the wall; her tartan that was stained with a dead man’s blood was pulled over head and shoulders; her knees were tucked under her chin.  She felt the dull throbbing of pain on her side where the man had cut her, and when she touched her side and brought her hand away, she could feel it wet and tacky to the touch.

 Her face was wet too, and she could not remember crying.  She had not thought she had it in her to cry; she just felt numb and empty.  The leaping thoughts of her frantic mind had subsided now.  Everything was returning slowly to focus, even though she wanted to hold onto the grateful numbness for as long as she possibly could.  The voice of the second man, she recalled: the man who had not come down the stairs to join the first man lying at her feet.  The voice was Brother Kabsal’s, the young Ardent from the Courtlea village church.

 Her ears eventually stopped ringing.  Her breath no longer rattled in her chest.  But her hands still shook, and her legs trembled, and even though she could no longer hear the sound of gunfire from above, she felt that the strength to walk the curving steps was beyond her capability.  It wasn’t that she couldn’t walk – she could do it, if she wanted: she could put one foot in front of the other, like any clockwork automaton.  It was the unpleasant fact that if she did, she would be returning to the light above, returning to her regular life.  The life of the Shallan who smiled at handsome gentlemen who smiled back – handsome gentlemen who did not know the Shallan that killed and felt nothing because she had nothing left inside her with which to feel.

 

 ***

 

 Shallan did not know how long she sat on the last step, in the cold welling blackness that was only held at bay by the warmth of her tartan shawl.  It did not matter if her eyes were open or closed: everything looked the same in the dark.  Perhaps everyone was the same in the dark as well.

 She heard Kaladin’s voice calling her name from above, and saw a circle of his descending light.  She did not respond; she got to her feet unsteadily, clinging to the wall for support.

 “Shallan?  Miss Davar?  _Storms_. _”_   He was next to her now, holding a lamp high.  The leaves and chips of mosaic on the floor were spotted wetly with clotting blood; there was the dead man with a misshapen face only a few paces from the last step. 

 “I dropped the gun,” she mumbled, drawing her tartan shawl around herself.  Speech – emotion – function – they were returning to her now; she felt the darkness pulling backward and away, leaving her behind.

 “I’ll fetch it,” Kaladin grunted, and swept away the leaves with his foot.  The bloodied leaves rustled and became swaths of bloodied streaks on the stone floor.   Kaladin picked up the gun, and the man’s dagger, and slipped them both into his belt.  He took her arm, and slipped her satchel over his shoulder.  “Come.  It’s over now.”

 She leaned against him, and he bore her weight with patience and without complaint, and they rose from the close darkness of the stone chamber to enter the soft sighing darkness of a forest at night.

 

 ***

 

 Adolin ran toward her as soon as she appeared through the gap in the wall.  He was wild-eyed, with black smudged across his face and bare forearms; his hair lay in spikes against his forehead, dark with his own sweat.   She gasped as he embraced her, and swung her around, and pressed his cheek against hers, whispering her name over and over again. 

 He let go of her at long last, and pulled away.  Her eyes were immediately drawn to the red that bloomed across the front of his blue waistcoat.   Adolin saw her looking at his torso, and looked down himself; he saw the stain, and drew a hand across it as if he thought to wipe it away.  His fingers came away red.

 “Kal, she’s bleeding,” said Adolin.

 “I’m fine.”  Shallan pulled the tartan closer around her shoulders.

 “She’s in shock,” said Kaladin.

 “You don’t need to help me.”

 “Yes we do, Shallan,” said Adolin, wiping his hand on a cleaner section of his waistcoat.  “Here, Kal, take her.  I’ll see to the oth— the horses.”

 Kaladin’s hand closed around her wrist and she was towed to a small fire, where a camping cauldron was nestled in charcoal embers.  The travel kettle was also there, boiling away; Kaladin’s panniers were opened and their contents were neatly arranged on the ground; adjacent was an unfolded bedroll.  There was a musket leaning against a nearby tree, stock to the ground and bayonet pointing upward.  The normally shiny surfaces of bayonet and barrel were smudged with something dark…  Shallan closed her eyes. 

 She felt Kaladin tugging at her tartan.  She held onto it.

 “Let me see,” he ordered.

 “It—it’s not proper.”

 “Do you really think I care?”

 “If you really didn’t care, you’d go away and leave me alone.”

 The tartan was yanked away.  She could feel the cold now, and the pain, and other things that she had no particular interest in feeling.  Her shawl was tossed to the ground; Kaladin was close, now he was touching her, his hands running across the cloth at her hip, then her stomach, until he found the tear high on her left side, at her ribs. 

 “No-one is going to leave you, Shallan.  Now, how does this confounded dress open,” he muttered, fingers gently probing the edges of the torn fabric.  “Don’t move.  I’m cutting it.”  The seam under her arm on the left side was sliced open, and the woollen overdress was peeled down.  He cut through her underdress, until he found her bodice.  “More laces?  _Storm it_.” 

 He spun her around, slit the row of laces at her back, and guided her to his bedroll; here he placed a firm but unyielding hand against her shoulder until she lay with her head pillowed on his saddlebag.  She could see him silhouetted by the fire, setting out a circle of chimney lamps and lighting them one by one; he unrolled his surgical tools in their leather case; his sure hands plucked out one instrument after another and laid them into an even line on a clean white kerchief. 

 “I’m going to use ether to cleanse the wound.  I’ve elevated your head and put you upwind, so you will not drift, nor frolic,” he said, in the calm but emotionless tone of a surgeon at work.  “Breathe shallowly and turn your face away; there will still be vapours.  In normal circumstances, I would have a tent for field operations, but to-night, we shall do it the old-fashioned way.”  He brought out a brown glass bottle, and cut the wax stopper off.  Ether.  He poured the ether into a small bowl containing a white cloth and a pair of forceps.  He also tipped the ether over his hands, and scrubbed them together.  “Brace yourself. This shall hurt quite a lot.”

 Shallan gasped when she felt the cold, then the fierce stinging pain when the ether-soaked cloth was touched to the cut on her ribs, and dabbed against the skin of her side.  It was cold, and hot, and then became the nameless essence of transcendent pain; she lacked words to properly describe it.  It was sudden and sharp, burning and searing at once; it stunned her insensate mind with more awareness than any abruptly thrown open curtains on any number of mornings.  And all of that awareness was attuned to experiencing pure agony.  She did not scream; she shuddered and twitched on the bedroll.

 “The smell...” she whispered, eyes rolling in her head.

 “You’re stronger than that,” said Kaladin.  His practised hands cleaned the wound with measured care, picking out shreds of fabric; he held the torn skin together with clip forceps.  She saw him thread a curved needle, almost like a hook, then wipe it down with an ether soaked cloth.  She closed her eyes.

 “I’m not strong.  The most wretched…”

 “You are _not_ weak.”  His voice was firm and assured.  “I saw a man to-day with broken ribs, a pierced right lung, a broken nose, and a fractured skull.  Do you know what I found to be the most curious?”

 “What?” gasped Shallan.  She concentrated on his voice.

 “He died with wool fibres between his teeth.”

 “So … you know.”

 “The first time you kill a man—” he said, voice steady. “Well, I won’t say it gets better, but it doesn’t get any worse.”

 “You sound … like you know a lot about it.”

 “I do.  All surgeons do.”

 “You wouldn’t know about it,” Shallan said weakly, “if you remembered – to talk less and brush your teeth more.”

 “What?”

 “…Your breath.”

 There was a coughing sound.  Was it a laugh?  She couldn’t tell.  She didn’t think Kaladin could laugh. 

 “ _Storms_.  Really?” he said, finally.

 “Yes—” said Shallan faintly.  The fumes: she could smell them.  He had told her to breathe shallowly, but she hadn’t been.  “It doesn’t get worse.  I don’t think it can get any worse…”  She did not know if she was talking about his breath or about killing men.

 “My father,” Kaladin said, one hand pressed against her bared side, “once asked me if one could kill to protect.  I thought about it for a long time and decided that you can – you can kill to protect other people, or to protect yourself.  You protected yourself, and it was not wrong.  Any god who says otherwise doesn’t deserve to have my soul.”

 “I didn’t think about right or wrong when I did it.  I didn’t think at all.”  She hadn’t _felt_ anything either, but she didn’t – _couldn’t_ – say that.

 “It doesn’t matter now, Shallan.  You’re alive, and you’ll be better soon, and that is what matters.”  His hands pulled back, and she felt a tug and then a twang of pain as he tied his knots.  More pain as the area was swabbed with ether; it prickled with stabbing icicles, worse than how it felt when she had been cut by that dead man’s dagger.  He bandaged the spot with a pad of white cloth, and wrapped bandage all around her chest to keep it in place; he kept his eyes averted from her skin, still faintly freckled from the weeks on the _Wind’s Pleasure_.  “Now.  Shallow breaths.  You’ll be all right from here; the boning took most of the force—”

 “Kal!”

 His head turned.  It was Adolin.  “What!” he called.

 “Are you done? Come over here!”

 “Excuse me, Miss Davar.”  Then he was gone.

 She saw him join Adolin and Karsten by the horses.  Karsten was holding the reins of her gelding, who still had on her side-saddle.  Kaladin peered at the horse, and looked at his legs and circled around him, patting his sides – the horse made a queer groaning noise; Karsten walked the horse a few halting steps and then there was a whispered conversation between the three men.  Adolin occasionally glanced back at her.

  _“—Internal bleeding—”_ she heard.  _“—The bones … a fracture … exit point here and here … he’s lamed…”_

 She heard Adolin say, _“I — I can’t do it.”_

 She heard Kaladin grunt and say something under his breath.  Then Adolin and Kaladin were approaching, to where she lay on Kaladin’s bedroll with her bodice, cut laces dangling, clasped over her bare skin and bandages.  Shallan pretended she hadn’t heard a thing – she wished she hadn’t – and closed her eyes. 

 “Shallan?” came Adolin’s voice, soft with concern.  He knelt next to her, and took her hand.  He didn’t seem to notice, nor care, that her own blood had dried over her hands; dark blood crusted beneath her fingernails. 

  “She ought not to listen,” Kaladin said in a gruff voice; he seized the brown bottle of ether from his open saddlebag.

 He appeared to spy the bowl of ether and bloodstained cloth; he picked it up and flung the contents into the fire, which flared with sudden brightness.  The knot at Kaladin’s neck was swiftly undone, and his neckcloth was unrolled; he spared a brief glance for the two of them, and collected the musket from where it had been set against the tree, and was soon gone from the circle of warm yellow lamplight, ether bottle in hand.

 “What’s the matter with my horse?” asked Shallan. 

 “Shallan, there’s—” began Adolin.

 “Where are they taking him?”

 “He was hurt in the fight.”

 She saw Kaladin pour ether onto his neckcloth; he pressed it over the horse’s muzzle.  Karsten led the horse, slow and stumbling, deeper into the forest.  There was something wrong with its right foreleg; its sides – darkly streaked with sweat and something else that dripped blackly – heaved with exertion.

 “I don’t want to hear it.”

 “Neither do I,” he said.  He pulled her into his arms, heedless of her state of undress, and they held one another in the bright circle of lamps.  She heard his ragged breathing and felt his trembling; she was trembling herself.  It was not just from the chill in the air, nor the aching from her sides.  She rested her head against the hollow of his shoulder; she could not smell his cologne, only his fear-sweat and the fouled chimney-like bite of gunpowder; his fingers twined through hers with savage grip. 

 A shot rang out from the forest.

 Karsten came out, carrying the side-saddle and the musket.  Kaladin followed, ether bottle in one hand, limp neckcloth in the other; it dangled from his clenched fist, fluttering white and silken, like a bride’s prayer. 

 

***

 

 Their dinner was made from the luncheon leftovers.  Diced ham and sliced sausage were boiled in the cauldron, thickened with crushed travel biscuits and the mushrooms and wild garlic Karsten had collected by the creek.  It could never be described as elegant, but at least it was hearty and filling.  They took turns eating straight from the pot – they had not brought any porcelain with them – and at least it was not oatmeal.

 They did not attempt to return to the House now that night had fallen.  If there were others in the woods with guns, they had not dared to risk an ambush – or more likely, a fall in the dark and the loss of another horse.   Her gelding – its injury – its death – had distressed Adolin the most of all the party.  While Karsten cleaned the spoons, Adolin had gone to the horses’ pickets.  She saw him speaking to his own horse, Sureblood, and patting the others; no-one made any comment on his behaviour.  

 Kaladin took the first watch of the evening; he climbed a tree and settled himself between the forking branches, his musket on his lap and a powder-horn dangling from his belt.  Karsten had the party’s guns and pistols out, and was cleaning them with methodical patience.  He had detached the bayonets and Shallan noticed smeared blood on them – and clumps of something that could have been hair.

 Shallan sat away from the fire, her back against a tree.  At first it was for some privacy – she had wanted to inspect the damage to her clothing – but after she had re-dressed herself as best she could, she found herself partial to the peaceful half-light at the edge of the circle of illumination.  It was quiet – but not silent – and she could hear the creak of the trees, and the rustle of leaves in the canopy that surrounded them in gentle darkness.

 She heard the shift of disturbed leaves and a shadow fell across her.  It was Adolin.  She stood; it was only polite.

 “Here,” he said, and held out his blue riding coat.  Shallan took it; she was cold, and there was a slit down the side of her dress that leaked away the warmth of her body.  He had his overcoat on over his bloodstained waistcoat. 

 “Thank you.”

 “May I sit?”

 “You needn’t ask – you own this forest, after all.”

 “One should never forget to be polite, not even to a tree,” he said, and settled in next to her, between two curving roots; his back pressed against the base of the tree trunk.  “How are you?”

 “As well as could be expected,” replied Shallan.  It sounded like insolence.  She had not meant to infer a complaint – this whole ill-fated expedition had been her own idea from the very beginning.

 Adolin was silent.  It stretched on for quite some time.

 Finally, he spoke.  “When I found out that Kal had abandoned you in there, in the dark, by yourself, I was so angry with him.”

 “It turned out all right, didn’t it?”

 “Yes.  It did, I suppose.  But the worst thing is – dare I admit it?  When I saw him – and I knew that he had left you unprotected – when we had spoken of _that_ earlier to-day … well, a part of me is ashamed to say that I was grateful he had come, pathetically grateful.  Please, forgive me.”  He did not turn toward her; his head was bowed and he could not meet her eyes.

 “Did he save your life?” asked Shallan, picking at the dried mud on her skirts.  She hoped her dress was salvageable; it was the best of her travelling wardrobe, and that was why she had worn it on the last day of the journey.  She did not want to be reminded of _that_ particular conversation from the morning.  “Would you be dead if he hadn't come along?”

 “Yes,” said Adolin softly.  “Once again, he saves the day.”  His voice was resigned – it was almost bitter, and it sounded strange from him, when he had always seemed so cheerful and good-humoured.  “As always.  Kaladin the heroic doctor, Karsten the veteran of a half a dozen campaigns – and even you, Shallan.  Beautiful and clever and brave Shallan, who can handle herself with only one shot and a handbag.  What do I have?”

 Shallan was almost disturbed by this display of honesty.  _This_ – it was not one of the little truths, the inconsequential and unimportant truths that ladies and gentlemen of quality made a game of, when they conversed over meals.   It wasn’t banter, and there was no humour in it.  This was a … confession.  She had not expected it, and she was not sure she wanted it.  It was intimate; it made her afraid, because it was a sign of his trust – more trust than she had shared with Jasnah, or anyone at all outside Loch Davar.  He trusted her; he shared his confidences; it was a sign that his affection for her was more substantial than any stolen kiss in a public house back-room.

 “You’re beautiful too,” she said finally.  She almost groaned.  It was terrible.

 “Yes – _beautiful_.  I’m just a walking fashion plate.”

 “Who said you needed to be anything?”

 “The whole world.”  Then he muttered, under his breath. _“My father.”_

 “You oughtn’t listen to the people who say such things.”

 “Are they not right?”

 “They are as wrong-headed as those who call your blood impure,” said Shallan hotly.  “When I, or Kaladin for that matter, see a man gasping out his last breath, dying – _dead_ – by our own hand, we hate this terrible world that makes us – _forces our hands_ – to selfishly choose one day more for ourselves at the price of one last day for another.”  She took a deep breath, and realised that her fingers were grasping rough handfuls of her woollen skirt; she lowered her voice to a harsh whisper.  “When I see you, I understand – it must be done for the sake of people like you.”

 “Like me?  Useless, lovesick fools?”

 “ _No._   Good men, honest men who remind us that this terrible world cannot be so terrible if they exist, so we do not – cannot – _should not_ – regret the choice of our one more day.  You are a good man, with a good heart,” Shallan said, with feeling, then added, “and when a man with a knife comes at a good man, can he be anything but a bad one?”

 Adolin was silent, but he reached for her hand over the gnarled root of the tree.  She squeezed his hand, and glanced over.  His eyes were on her, reflections of firelight shining in the not-so-ordinary blue; his eyes were full of warmth and grateful affection.  It had been something like half a year since she had seen those emotions felt – for her – and with a clumsy shuffle that dislodged dried leaves and squirming woodlice, she slithered over the tree root between them until they were face to face. 

 She straddled his lap, and he did not pull away as she had half-expected he might.  They stared one another for several long moments – then his hand rose to her cheek and she felt the gentle stroke of his thumb at the corner of her mouth – and then they were kissing, mouth to desperate mouth, breath to breath and she could not tell – _she could not care_ – whose was whose.

 Shallan found herself with her forehead pressed against his, her arms over his shoulders, and his arms around her waist.  She was drawing in great heaving breaths – and so was he – and several strands of her red hair were stuck to his cheek.  She brushed them away with a gentle sweep of her fingers, picked up her skirts, and climbed off him

 Adolin’s hand caught her wrist.  “Please – _don’t go_ ,” he said.

 “I won’t,” she replied, and he slid over and made room for her in between two large curving roots.  He threw a companionable arm over her shoulders, and she leaned against him, head on his chest, listening to his beating heart.  She counted to ten.  It did not take all that long.

 “Shall I tell you a truth?” Adolin whispered.  “I saw a battlefield for the first time when I was seventeen years old.  I saw men dying beside me, dying for the love they bore for my father.  I love my father – but I was afraid that I could not – do as they did that day.  Seeing these men – men I knew – calling for their mothers, for water, or for the Almighty’s Grace … when I first saw it, and heard it, I could not help it.  I … soiled myself.” 

 “Well, there were no witnesses, at least.”  Perhaps it was flippant, or bad-mannered to say so, but Shallan could not think of what else to say; she deferred to – inappropriate – humour.  She could not imagine being surrounded by dying men; one at a time was more than enough, more than she – or anyone, really – should bear.

 “Hah! Oh, Shallan,” said Adolin softly, “I envy that – how you always know the right things to say.”

 “The right things?  No, it’s more that I say them to the right person.”

 They were silent for some time, watching the distant flickering flames, hand in hand.

 Adolin spoke again; his voice was firmer, but thoughtful.  “The thunder of cannons, and the screaming horses, and the gouts of smoke like the fires of Damnation.  It was nothing like the quiet map rooms and precise manoeuvres of the practice field.  I was … frightened.  I suppose I can admit that now.”

 “Do you still feel fear when you know you must kill a man before he kills you?”

 “Yes.”

 “Keep hold of that.”

 “Why?”

 “As long as you feel something, you will know that you can still be a good man.  It is the bad people who have nothing left inside them,” said Shallan.  She knew this to be a truth, a truth that hurt all the more for her painful certainty in it.

 “I – am glad to have you, Shallan,” he said, his voice hesitant.

 “I am glad to know that there is more to you than mere fashion plates.”

 “You might be the only one,” admitted Adolin.  A queer expression crossed his face.  “You – you must think me weak.”

 _“No_ – you are human,” Shallan said passionately.  She paused, then continued in a more gentle tone. “You call what afflicts you weakness.  But I do not – it is mercy, and it is kindness.  If only the world held more of that.”

 “If only it did.  But it doesn’t – and if it knew – what would it call me?”

 Shallan sat up abruptly at that, and turned to look Adolin in the eye.  They stared at one another for several long seconds, and then she leaned over and whispered very quietly into his ear.  _“The world need never know.”_

 They held each other in the semi-darkness, nestled in the roots of a great tree in the great rustling forest.  It was similar to, Shallan supposed, but not entirely like the still stone arches of the village church.  There was something else – something more – about that forest; it held the promise of expectation, of change and growth and – of progress.

 Perhaps one day she could feel the same calming peace with Adolin that she found with things she called familiar – things that reminded her of that vague – and growing ever vaguer – concept of “ _Home”_.  She felt it in the smell of ether vapours, for the scent of lavender, for woollen tartans, and misted lochs under greying skies.  Would it be so difficult to feel that same comfortable ease around Adolin? 

  _Only if he knew all of her, as she knew all of him_ , said that part of her who wanted to hide away for ever in silence and despair.

 Adolin fell asleep beside her; his eyes closed and his breathing slowed.  Karsten banked the fire and set away the re-assembled guns.  Kaladin climbed down from his tree and they swapped watches; Karsten took the musket and she heard the crackle and scrape of his boots on tree bark.  Kaladin sat on his bedroll, sorting his surgical supplies.  She saw him watching them; she could see the yellow-orange gleam of embers reflected in his eyes.   She wondered what he thought of them now – of her and Adolin – and after some idle contemplation, decided she was too tired to care.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this the AU version of the chasm scene? Why not, nothing in this story is exactly 1:1, but a major thematic element has to be carried over, right? :-) The real question is: was it with Kaladin or Adolin?
> 
> This part of the story has some character developments going on, if you hadn't noticed.  
> \- Shallan is generally nonconfrontational - but now you see she will act when she can't run or avoid danger, as she usually does. The tartan means a lot to her, and isn't just a reminder of home. Remember the first time she opens the trunk and feels hysteria seeing it?  
> \- "Do you really think I care?" - Kaladin doesn't leave Shallan alone. This is where you see he doesn't hate her, and isn't neutral to her. He is impressed that she isn't screaming at the ether, and that she can make a joke ("Your breath" - callback to Chapter 1). He calls her "Shallan" instead of "Miss Davar", which shows his level of familiarity. Yes, he saw her topless, but he has seen it all before as a surgeon. Remember Chapter 2, when he called her "skinny and speckled like a frog"? Now that he's actually seen her, he doesn't think that anymore. At least not in a bad way. :)  
> \- On the horses - It's too early to kill off Sureblood, but someone had to die. And it was foreshadowed earlier when Kaladin mocks Shallan's horse for being too slow. Adolin really likes animals; it's one reason why he doesn't hunt.  
> \- On the guns - no Shardblades in the AU, military tech is around Earth level, with medical a bit further on. Gentlemen learn how to fence, but Kaladin isn't a gentleman. He is pretty handy with musket and bayonet (AU spear equivalent) and his surgeons hands don't shake so he's a good shot.  
> \- On Adolin - I'm not sure how much everyone got out of reading into Adolin's canon character, but I wrote him as someone who, outside his flashy public persona, has daddy issues and is afraid of failure.  
> \- "I was grateful he had come, pathetically grateful" - Remember the 4:1 duel? If Kaladin hadn't jumped in, Adolin would have been a cripple and Renarin probably dead. He isn't jealous of Kaladin's combat skills, but sad that he sucks compared to everyone else, because he feels fear and regret when killing things while everyone seems to do it and be fine - note: there is no Thrill in AU but compare to to IRL Earth's societal expectations on masculinity, especially for soldiers, which Adolin never wanted to be. (Compare Kaladin who is okay with killing when it's done to protect people). Adolin also has PTSD symptoms. Too bad there are no therapists.  
> \- "if it knew – what would it call me?” - the word is "coward". Adolin isn't a coward, but he's in a bad mental state and is thinking too emotionally.  
> \- I wanted to compare Adolin and Kaladin's characters here. Shallan has a lot in common with Kaladin - they're broken people etc. But Adolin being a good person who is mostly "whole" is attractive to her, because what he sees is weak and unmasculine she thinks is a strength. She is still mostly unaware that Kaladin is starting to have feelings for her. Kaladin is also not afraid of making bawdy jokes, and isn't afraid of skin contact unlike Adolin who blushes at seeing a woman's leg through her stocking. His "baseball plate" level is unknown, but he isn't pure pureness level as Adoiin. Since Doctor Kaladin does take care of maids' mysterious "personal issues" and all.


	11. XI

 Shallan awoke sore, tired and disappointed, under the shadowed eaves of the forest.  Morning sunlight filtered through the leaves above, and she stared up at them, feeling itchy and stiff.  She had been leaning against the tree when she had fallen asleep, but she found herself slanted across a handful of knobbly tree roots.  It hurt to move – that was the first disappointment.  Some might complain about stiffness in the neck, but Shallan had developed an unwelcome understanding of the type of stiffness that extended throughout the whole body.

 Her second disappointment, which to her great shame – was it really _all_ shame? – eclipsed the first, was that Adolin was not beside her upon awakening.  She had gone to sleep and woken up alone every single day of her life, and now she was disappointed that this day, this morning, was exactly like all the others.  It was a petty disappointment, but she still felt it, and she could not help but wonder if Adolin had found her wanting in some fashion.  No-one had ever had the opportunity to accuse her of snoring or flailing about in her sleep; there was only Kaladin, who had mocked her for drooling. 

_Kaladin._

 He stood over her now, hands on hips, fully dressed in his coat and trousers.  He lacked only his neckcloth; it was missing from around his collar, and the buttons of his shirt were not done up all the way – she could see tanned flesh and the barest hint of collarbone.  She pulled herself up reluctantly, and the stitches on her side twinged with fresh agony to the dull ache of stiffened muscles.  She groaned with the shock of it.

 Kaladin tossed a biscuit onto her lap.  “Breakfast.  If you’re hungry, then we had better start moving for the House.”

 She threw it back at him.   He caught it with ease. “Eat it yourself,” she said.  “I must visit the bushes.”

 “Hurry back then; I must inspect your wound and its stitching.”  He crossed his arms and jerked his head toward a section of forest around edge of the rock outcrop that was the pre-Vorin temple.

 When she returned, she saw that Kaladin had out his leather roll of surgical instruments, and his bowl of ether.  There was a clean white cloth resting in the bowl, and a roll of bandages wrapped in white paper next to it.   He had shed his coat and his sleeves were rolled back; she smelled ether in the air.  He was shaking his hands, drying them after an ether scrub, and Shallan saw that there were narrow lines of scarring scrawled across his muscled forearms.

 “Would you prefer it lying down or standing up?” he asked, eyebrow raised in an impudent manner.

 “With you?  Neither.”

 “You may take the time to make your choice while you remove the coat.”

 Shallan had forgotten she was still wearing Adolin’s blue riding coat, the one he had given her – before he had confessed his private thoughts to her.  She still did not fully understand what had prompted him to do so.  She had read in Jasnah’s books of folk tales that there were certain trees that non-Vorin Continentals revered for their properties in revealing truths – perhaps that had something to do with it.  She could not guess; she did not know enough about the ways of men – and what little she knew of them came from Jasnah’s advice.

 She slowly tugged off the coat.  It was too broad in the shoulders for her, and the sleeves were much too long – they drooped almost to her knees like the traditional Vorin dresses depicted in old tapestries.  It was thick and made of smooth, finely fibred wool; she was reluctant to lose its warmth. 

 Kaladin tapped his foot impatiently.  “Have you made your decision yet?”

 “Standing.”

 “Good.  The dress goes next.”

 What had happened to the gentle doctor from the previous evening, the one who had tried to console her, who had attempted to spare her feelings when she thought herself a murderess?  She slid the dress down her shoulders, and felt cold air entering through the slit side; she shivered.  Why did it matter?  She grit her teeth.  It was clear he was an unpleasant man to the core, and it was a guarantee of disappointment to expect anything more.

 “Here,” she said, holding her torn underdress to cover what few shreds of dignity she had left.  “Can you make it quick?  Hm.  I suppose that question need not be answered.”

 She turned her face away when she felt his fingers quickly undoing the bandage around her chest; he probed the stitches over her ribs.  She did not look down; she did not want to see what it looked like by the light of day; she did not want to see her own dried blood staining her white bandage, nor her white underdress.  The sight was too … familiar.

  _“Whatever the lady desires,”_ Kaladin said in his unpleasant, sarcastic way.  He reached for the white cloth in the bowl of ether.

 She felt the cold of the ether first, when he pressed the soaked cloth against the stitched flesh of her side.  Then the pain came, all at once, and not in the successive waves of dull throbbing that she had felt during the night – a single torrent of nameless, searing agony that swept away thought and reason until there was no sense at all, and only the sensation of pain remained.   She gasped; she took a step backward; there was a root jutting out from the soil behind her, and she stumbled.

 Kaladin caught her around the waist, and she by instinct threw her arms over his shoulders, and pressed her face against the bare flesh of his collar.  Tears prickled in her eyes, but she did not cry.  She did not scream.  She shuddered against him, as the pain crashed through her and around her and it left her, and she was left behind, limp and dazed and blinking. 

 “Miss Davar?  Shallan?” she heard faintly, as if from a distance.  With a jolt, she returned to herself.  She pushed away immediately, but he did not let go; his arms were still warm and solid against the naked skin of her waist and back.   She felt a tug on her chest, and then he patted her on the shoulder and stepped away.  Her bandage had been changed for a fresh one.

 Shallan’s legs trembled; she sat down with a thump.

 “Get dressed.”  Kaladin dropped the stained bandage into the ether bowl, which he picked up with one hand.  His other hand closed on the roll of surgical instruments, and then he withdrew.  Well, he was surely no gentleman; Shallan had made that conclusion upon their first being introduced.  He paused, then turned back.  “There’s tea on the fire if you want some.”

 Shallan had eventually decided to knot her tartan around her chest to cover the hole in her dress, and wear Adolin’s riding coat over it.   She would stay warmer that way; the cutaway tails of the coat were stylish but rather breezy in the back and sides.  She was drinking tea out of a tin travelling cup when Adolin and Karsten appeared out of the forest, leading the two remaining horses and Karsten’s brown mule. 

 “Are we ready to go?” called Adolin.  “We went to the creek to water the horses before we left.  We should load them up now, if you’ve packed your things.” 

 Shallan only had her satchel and her bonnet.  She was lifting the strap over her shoulder when Adolin approached, leading Sureblood. 

 “Good morning,” she said.  “Did you sleep well?   You look chipper this morning – _Heavens_ , did you manage a shave?”

 Adolin grinned.  He did look much more refreshed than she expected she herself was; he had washed the dark smoke smudges off his face, and his jaw was smooth from the very recent touch of a razor.  She had felt the beginnings of his whisker stubble when she kissed him last night, but it had been too dark to tell what colour it was.  She had hoped that the daylight would reveal _that_ particular secret of his.

 “One must take steps to look presentable at all times, you know,” said Adolin.  He held out his hand, and she took it, and he pulled her to her feet.  “Words of wisdom that my father always quotes.  Anyhow, I wanted to ensure that there was nothing for you to object to – as you will be riding with me when we reach the trail.”

 “I could never object to you, sir,” Shallan replied.  She rose to her toes and kissed him on the cheek.  She could see that Kaladin, who was putting out the fire with handfuls of damp earth, was rolling his eyes.  Sureblood lipped at her hair; she squeaked at his hot breath at her ear and jerked forward in surprise. 

 She pressed against Adolin’s chest, and he held her; she could smell the orange pith and herbal scent of his toilet water – had he _really_ brought toilet water on what he had assumed was a treasure hunt?  Nevertheless, it smelled nice, and she could not find anything objectionable in that.   He certainly smelled better than Kaladin, who, being an unpleasant person, smelled of unpleasant things: in that brief moment she had been close to him, she had discerned sweat, ether vapours and gunpowder.

 _“Nor I you,”_ Adolin whispered. 

 She wished it were true, wholeheartedly.  But it wasn’t, and it could never be.  No-one could like her if they truly knew her as she really was – she did not even like herself, when it came down to it.  Not even her brothers knew her; they had always assumed the acts of wrongness that had begun the breaking of the family had been committed by their father, and Shallan hadn’t had the heart to correct them.  She still didn’t want to; she had doubts it could ever change. 

 Kaladin coughed loudly.  “Are we ready to leave now?”

 

***

 

 They hiked back to the trail in a more direct path than they had taken the afternoon prior.  Karsten had Shallan’s map out – he had kept it since the morning she presented it to him in the stable yard – and was muttering as he counted paces.  Occasionally he climbed a tree to confirm their heading by the sun, whenever the clouds had thinned enough for him to see.  They did not tack back and forth; they were confident in their tread, but still wary.  They might be beset once again in this forest, and both Kaladin and Adolin had their muskets and pistols within easy reach.  They led their horses.  Shallan was not able to make studies of the forest, as she had been forced to walk between them – for her own safety, she was told.  All she saw on either side was horseflesh and panniers.

 “What happened – last evening?” she asked.

 Adolin turned toward her, Sureblood’s bridle in gloved hands.  His horse did not have the metal bit that went in the mouth, like Kaladin’s horse, Shallan observed.  “We were with the horses – they were restless.  I imagine that they sensed something on the wind.  Karsten and I took to the trees and tried to shoo the horses away when he saw something rustling the undergrowth.  We hid – they had the numbers on us.” He paused, then looked over at Kaladin, and his voice grew quieter.  “We could not have matched their rate of fire, with just the two of us to reload.  I had hoped our fired shots would have given enough warning for Kaladin to take you and hide in the forest until they left.”

 “Were they highwaymen?”

 “A forest is hardly a highway, Miss Davar,” said Kaladin.  “I suspect they are more likely to be assassins.”

 “And their target – Adolin?”

 Kaladin exchanged an uneasy glance with Adolin.  “I – cannot say.  But an investigation on the estate employees would be in order.”

 “I have no reason to doubt the loyalty of our employees or tenants,” said Adolin firmly.  “I say they are foreign saboteurs – my father was right.  He warned me, about the trouble stirring from the south—”

 “Your father and your cousin both – have their particular fancies.  But you should not speak of this – _not here_. _”_

 “Do you not trust Shallan?” asked Adolin softly.

 Shallan spoke. “I can hear you, you know!  And I am _not_ a spy.”

 “No,” replied Kaladin.  “But you are a … temporary guest.”

 “Well, Doctor, just for that,” scoffed Shallan, stamping her feet on the spongy forest litter with each forward step.  “If an assassin successfully manages to do away with me next time, I shall ensure that my shadow lingers around just to haunt you – _and not temporarily!”_

 “To haunt me?  To spite me, I should think.”

 “No-one will be done away with!” said Adolin.  “Please, can we not restrain ourselves?”

 “Well, only because you are here,” Shallan conceded, and then she added, “if you were not, I do not think I could restrain myself.”

 “Your unrestrained ferocity could scarcely hope to impress me. I daresay that you might actually wish to haunt me for eternity, Miss Davar?”

 “The prospect of spiting you for ever would bring me great satisfaction.”

 Adolin’s head turned from one speaker to the other, and then he looked to the sky and sighed.  “But it will not happen because Shallan will be safe and sound, and—” here he paused and looked pointedly at Kaladin, “—the good Doctor will volunteer his skills to her benefit, should she ever need them.”

 “The good Doctor will accede to the good Duke’s request … so long as Miss Davar is a guest of the House,” said Kaladin, tonelessly. 

 “Chin up, Doctor,” said Shallan.  “I shall not be in your hair for long – that is, if I – or anyone – wanted anything to do with your hair.”

 “And why is that?” he said.

  “Are you leaving, Shallan?” came Adolin at the very same time.

 “Jasnah will return within the next two days.  I suppose she would want us to visit Ivory Lane, then we might return to the Continent or Kharbranth.”

 “I recall,” said Kaladin, his voice tight, “she said that she would take you away with her on the condition of – a disinterest in acquaintanceship.”

 “Why, yes, I suppose you are correct, Doctor.”

 “As I have said, it is a habit of mine.”

 “Well, I say I am not disinterested,” Adolin said, stepping around a tall stand of underbrush.  “Unless there is only acquaintanceship.  Then that would be a mere disappointment.”  He looked to Shallan, a question in his eyes.  “Will that convince you to say?”

 “Would you want me to?”

 “The prospect of your staying—” he replied, searching for words; he could not seem to find the right ones, and but continued on nevertheless, “—would bring me great satisfaction.”

 Shallan smiled at him.  “If that’s an invitation, then I gladly accept.”  She saw Kaladin turn his face away at her words; he tugged at his own horse’s bridle – he pulled too firmly, and the horse nickered and butted at him in annoyance.

 “I am glad to hear it.”

 “There is one matter, though.”

 “What is it?”

 “You must convince Jasnah.”

 

 They found the logging trail without incident; the horses were pleased to at last have the firm footing of the cleared path: the damp forest litter would not done their hooves nor their iron horseshoes much good.  They had not seen any assassins in the woods, but they did observe that the dirt path had seen some hard use, very recently – there were hoofmarks, and the earth was churned up in places, and there were spoors from many horses.  So: there had been a large group of assassins on horseback, and they had managed to get away after being driven off by the gentlemen’s guns.

 “Shallan, you must ride with me,” said Adolin, when the horses had been led onto the path.  “Sureblood will have no trouble with two riders, and his back is broad enough for the both of us.”

 “She must ride in front, not pillion,” Kaladin said, as he swung himself into his saddle.  “It would be best if the stitches were not jostled or chafed about.”

 They were waiting for her to mount now.  Shallan stared at Sureblood’s stirrup, which was at the level of her hip.  She was not at all sure she could stretch her foot up that high, without tearing something dearer than her fresh sutures.  

 “Shallan?  After you,” said Adolin, patting Sureblood’s neck. 

 “It may help if you were to make a foothold for her, Adolin,” offered Kaladin.  “It might happen to be an immensely amusing sight to watch Miss Davar stumble about.  But then I’m sure we would be waiting here all day, and I’m also quite sure you would not enjoy her sitting in front of you covered in mud and horse doings.”

 “You might find horse doings on your own self without any explanation for how they happened to get there, Doctor,” Shallan huffed.  “And, naturally, it would take you several days to actually notice.”

 Adolin laced his gloved fingers together, and Shallan put one foot on them; he tossed her upward, and she managed to get a toe into the stirrup and over the side of Sureblood’s back.  It was very broad, and was almost like sitting astride a whisky cask – albeit a cask that gurgled with mysterious digestive noises and leaked out one end.  Adolin himself mounted with ease, and soon sat himself behind her, his chest at her back.  It was quite close, as Sureblood’s saddle was meant for one rider; the pommel dug rather uncomfortably into Shallan’s stomach. 

 They rode for the head of the trail and the perpendicular of the village road at a steady trot, with Karsten at the lead, musket in hand.  They only stopped when he reined his mule in at the rustling undergrowth on one side of the trail.  A sow boar ambled out, with five striped piglets at her side.  One of the piglets was a white-pink colour, with red eyes.  The horses stamped with impatience at the halt, but the boars ignored them, and crossed the trail to the other side of the Forest to be lost into the bushes.

 The continued onward from the village road to the King’s Road, too intent on watching for any signs of assassins or even mundane highwaymen to make conversation.  They were tense, and hungry, and the horses eager to return to their stables.  Shallan jounced uncomfortably on Sureblood’s back, unused to riding astride – it was unseemly for a woman to ride with her legs in such a position, in front of men.  And she was very aware that she was in front of a man – for Adolin’s arms held her around the waist, and his thighs pressed against hers; his feet had the stirrups.   It was not as romantic as it had been described in novels, as she had caught him on the chin several times with the back of her head, but he made no complaint.

 They were four miles from the Kholinar Court grounds when they encountered the search party of mounted stablemen and groundskeepers with their yipping hounds eager for a scent.

 

***

 

 Shallan had had a bath as soon as they were back at the House.  She had not untied the bandage, but left it on, carefully trying to keep it out of the water.  The bathwater was a muddy grey-brown by the time she had stepped out of it and into her warmed shift and dressing gown.  She left her bloodstained woollen carriage dress, torn underdress and unlaced bodice on the floor of the bathing chamber; let the servants decide whether they were worth cleaning and repairing or burning – the sight of the blood-stiffened fabric made her squeamish, especially since she knew it was mostly her own blood; she was happy to shed them, and she did not care what was done with them.

 When she returned to her bedchamber, there was a covered lunch tray waiting for her on the vanity, with a bowl of hare cassoulet and buttered rolls, and a dish of blancmange that smelled wonderfully of imported vanilla and candied almonds.  She did not immediately start on the meal, even though she was hungry.  No, there was other work that had to be done.

 Shallan pulled her sketchbook out of her rather worse-for-wear satchel, flicking through the roughly drawn pages of copied mural.  On a whim, she returned to the page with the watercolour of Loch Davar, near the beginning of the book.   She still had her trunk with her things from Loch Davar – the one and only trunk she had brought with her from Scotland in her search for the elusive Countess Jasnah.  It was still at the foot of her bed.

 She opened it up, and the scent of lavender wafted out.  She could ignore it for now; she was looking for something at the bottom, where she had put it – with no intention of ever seeing it again – six months ago.  She dug through to the bottom – and there it was.  A waxed paper envelope with a copy of Jushu’s calculated progressionals.

 She spread the sheets onto the vanity, and copied the basic formulae onto fresh papers while she ate her lunch.  The formulae were all the same, if one kept the basic format of a ninety-minute drift with a gradual awakening after the first hour.  The books of formulae could be bought from any barber-surgeon; loose sheets with the most popular formulae were commonly sold in apothecaries.  It was defining the parameters that was the most difficult – the measurements were time consuming to acquire, and often required the rental of expensive equipment if one could not afford a professional calculation.

 Shallan had learned the skills of basic chemistry with an ether distillation kit: she had distilled Jushu’s cheaply bought and roughly made street-ether into one of a purer and higher concentration – the calculations were more exact that way, when one was absolutely certain there were no foreign additives.   The distillation glassware had had multiple uses – the temperature measurement, for example, could be done at home with the glass tubes filled with water – it made a rough thermoscope, when proper spirit or quicksilver thermometers were too expensive to afford.  This was one of the skills that had impressed Jasnah enough to take her on as a ward, although Shallan had never explained their origin.

 She had no glassware here, and she would not know where to purchase a set.  She supposed that Kaladin would have a distillation kit – he had mentioned a stillroom at the dinner the evening before their unfortunate treasure expedition.  But he was a surgeon, and personal physician to a very wealthy patron – he must have a properly graduated scale thermometer – wouldn’t he?  Shallan put that parameter to the wayside for now, and concentrated on the ones she could fill in. 

 Shallan was thus occupied with the calculations when Finnie arrived to dress her hair and remove the lunch tray.   She did not speak to the maid, for her mind was busy with the numbers – all of the arithmetic would have to be done by hand and triple checked for their accuracy.  She was not afraid that the maid would understand what she was doing – her progressionals had been tailored to the point of unrecognisability from a bought set of formulae sheets, and she used her own shorthand along with the Kharbranth letter symbols; only an experienced driftwatcher would have been able to discern the meaning of it.

 There was a knock at the door.  Finnie put down the brushes and went to answer it.  There was a whispered argument.  Shallan ignored it.

 “Miss Davar,” said Kaladin.  He was right behind her.

 Shallan stood up so quickly that the chair overturned.

 She whirled, saw him only a few paces away, then spun back to the table to hurriedly scrape together the sheets of paper into one loose pile.  “What are you doing here?” she asked, through gritted teeth.

 “I must evaluate the state of your stitches.  It was a rather hurried ride back and I’m told you have had a bath since then.  I will need to determine if there has been any skin tearing,” replied Kaladin with infuriating calmness.

 “Well,” said Shallan, attempting to counterfeit nonchalance.  “I choose lying down this time, and on the bed.  The maid can undo the bandages.”

 “I’ve already dismissed her.  She’s waiting in the hall now.  You wouldn’t like to keep her waiting, would you?”

 Shallan slid the dressing gown off and tossed it over the vanity table, then stalked over to the bed and threw herself onto it, muttering under her breath.  Kaladin picked up the overturned chair and set it by the bedside.  He placed his kit bag on the side table.

 “Will you close your eyes so we might pretend you care about preserving my modesty?” said Shallan, reaching for the buttons of her shift.  “Or would you prefer to leer openly?”

 “Miss Davar, I assure you – I would gladly do so if only there were anything worth leering at,” he answered evenly.

 “Well, get on with it then.”

 “How absolutely charming.  I sincerely hope Adolin’s bedside manner has more patience in it for you than mine.”

 Shallan closed her eyes as Kaladin’s deft fingers undid the knots in the bandage.  She felt him prodding at the inflamed skin at either side of the cut, and hissed at the swab of ether over the stitches.  But this time it was only a very light touch of ether, not the dripping cloth’s worth that she had gotten from him twice already.   It still hurt, but the pain receded quickly; the smell of the vapours lingered in her mind after the fumes dissipated.   

 The bandage was swiftly changed, and the kit bag was snapped shut.  Kaladin stood.  “You may put yourself away, Miss Davar.  I recommend a new bandage and an ether swab with a four-tenths solution once per day.  You cannot be trusted around ether, so I – to my great misfortune – must take valuable time out of my day to act the nursemaid.  The sacrifices we make for the undeserving, as they say, earn us a place in Heaven's Halls.”

 “The Halls would immediately become indistinguishable from Damnation should you find yourself – miraculously – accepted there,” said Shallan crossly, doing up her buttons and glaring at the velvet canopy over the bed.  She heard the door open.

 “Hm, well, Miss Davar.  When you attempt to be covert and replace your _sigma_ with _nu_ , you might want to at least ensure that you are perfectly consistent.” 

 The door closed, and Shallan lay on her bed glowering with an ill-humoured and unresolved frustration, until Finnie returned.  It did not take long; there was only a few minutes’ respite between Kaladin’s closing the door and Finnie’s re-opening it.  She bounced in, smiling, and Shallan could not see the reason for her unseemly sprightliness.

 “Oh, my lady,” she sang cheerily.

 “What is it?” asked Shallan testily.

 “Was he very good to you?”  _Did she just wink?_

 “What?”

 “Doctor Kaladin, my lady!  All the girls downstairs have wondered about him, you see.  Some of them have offered to show their gratitude for his being so, erm, accommodating and all, but he’s always refused.”

 Shallan sat up.   She struggled for words. “You think – the Doctor and I—?” 

 “He’s a fair looking man, no doubt – thoroughly fair,” said Finnie with a pleased smile.  “You wouldn’t be the first great lady to stray such, nor the last, begging your pardon.”

 Shallan was aghast.  “What – _no!”_

 “His Lordship won’t be told, worry not.”  Finnie waved an unconcerned hand.

 “No – no – _no!_   There is nothing to tell him!  _Here_ – look at this!” cried Shallan, and she pulled open the neck of her shift to bare the thick wad of white bandaging that crossed her chest.  “There is nothing – _nothing_ – between us.  And there will never be – _anything_.  I find him to be completely unpleasant!” 

 Finnie’s hands rose to her mouth.  “Oh my lady,” she said, shock evident in her voice.  “Your skin!  If it leaves you with a scar…”

 “Then I do hope the Duke will not find it completely unpleasant,” Shallan sighed.

 “If that’s the case, my lady, you must manage in darkness so he cannot see.”

 “Darkness.  I see,” said Shallan.  It was yet another secret to be kept from Adolin; it felt almost unfair to treat him in such a manner, when he had been so open with her the previous night.  But he had his own burdens – it would be considerably more unfair to heap the knowledge of her own atop his, wouldn’t it?  A thought occurred.  “Finnie, do you by happenstance know where balances might be kept?”

 “Balances?  The steward’s office, I should say.  He lives in the village, my lady.  But I wouldn’t know about it – I’m just the chambermaid.”

 “No, scale balances, for measuring weights,” Shallan explained.  “Heavy weights, like flour sacks.”

  _“Oh!”_ said Finnie excitedly.  “I know what you speak of now.  The stable master has one.  There is one in the kitchen.  And a few smaller ones in the butler’s study and servants’ hall for odd tasks like weighing cloth or smallgoods, to keep the merchants on their toes.  Will that do, my lady?”

 “Thank you, yes it does – very well,” said Shallan, smiling.                                

                                                                                                       

 ***

 

 “There is a scientific undertaking in progress,” announced Shallan, as she swept into the Kholinar Court kitchen.  Scullery maids and kitchen hands scattered in front of her; the lively buzzing activity of workers busy – working – faltered, and stopped.   There did seem to be a lot of food being prepared for a dinner that was to be served each night to a mere three people.

 A woman in the black of a master-servant stepped in front of her. She had a solid build, with thick arms and a ruddy face.  So, presumably, the head cook.  “My lady?  Do you need assistance in anything?  We send up trays for those who ring and request.” 

 There was a disapproval in her voice, which had the more precise and clear Kholinar elocution rather than the earthier Kholinshire country accents of the other servants.  Those from upstairs were not welcome below. Shallan slowly became aware that those below the rank of gentry were much more conscious about their social rank than those above – most gentry she had acquainted herself with in the past had had the luxury to call themselves egalitarian, in the Continental fashion, in the company of their peers.  There was a range of incomes for each person, and that was not talked about – but each knew the other had the pedigree, and _that_ was the only thing that mattered.

 “Balances?  Weighing scales?” said Shallan, putting forward her voice of confidence and authority.  “There is a matter Lady Jasnah asked me to see to.  I understand that there is a scale of size to be found in the kitchen and the stables – but I should say that the kitchens sounded the more appealing prospect.”

The head cook bowed; Shallan saw she wore black wide-legged trousers under a white apron.  “Ah, yes.  We do have a great scale in our pantry, if my lady will follow me.  It would not do for a great lady such as yourself to venture to the stables – we House staff do not find it an appealing prospect either.”

 She led Shallan to the back of the kitchen, where finished dishes cooled on iron racks.  Loaves of bread were stacked in baskets covered in cloths; it was quieter here without the noisome clanging of stoves being stoked and working benches being worked.  Shallan mused on what she had just been told.  There had been a hint of scorn in the master-servant’s voice, when she had mentioned the stables.  Was there a sort of rivalry between the House staff and the grounds staff?  Shallan had never been on an estate where the staff had been large enough to have their own divisions in this way.

 The pantry door was unlocked by the cook’s key, and the door pulled open.  Inside was a small room with shelves ascending to a high ceiling, with sacks of beans and flour on the floor and bottom-most level.  Higher up were jars of mysterious floating things, in glass and pottery; above that were smaller flasks of spices and flavourings, and baskets of dried things caught in small twine nets.  There were buckets of white powder on the floor – Shallan had seen those before in the Kharbranth Palanaeum – they were meant to absorb moisture from the air. 

 There was the scale on the floor, by a sack of flour.  It was a large scale, with a rectangular frame in sturdy iron-bound wood; the tray was on the floor and a smaller tray was connected by metal rods to the back.  That large tray was for the goods, and the small one was for the lead weights, which were piled adjacent. 

 “Shall I leave you to it, my lady?” asked the cook, clearly impatient to return to her work. 

 “Of course, I shall be only a few minutes,” said Shallan. 

 She had used scales before, in the miniature version.  This could not be much different – there was a counter on the top, with scored marks that were supposed to align when you balanced the weights exactly.  The only difference between this goods scale and the small ones she had used for buying sketching and painting papers in Kharbranth was that the weights were heavier.  Much, much heavier, it turned out.

_Clank._

 The thirty-pound weight dropped to the floor and crossed the pantry a mere second after Shallan had picked it up; it rolled to a gentle stop after bouncing off a flour sack.  She was not very fit; that much was obvious.  She looked around for the five- and ten-pound weights, but there were not many of them – she would run out before the scale was balanced.  Smaller goods were naturally weighed on smaller scales, and they would be too small for her to stand on.

 “Hallo?” called a voice, and the pantry door was opened fully from where it had been set ajar for the minimal light necessary to read the scale.

 _“Oh!”_ Shallan whirled around.  “Adolin!  What are you doing here?”

 He stepped into the pantry, and pulled the door back to its original position.  He eyed the scale and the handful of small weights she managed to arrange on the tray.  “I was hungry.  I had a tray sent up for lunch but dumbwaiters are only so large, you see.  What are you doing in the pantry?”

 Shallan thought quickly.  “Weighing myself.  Um.  I was thinking if I needed another horse,” she said, hoping the excuse she’d latched onto was reasonable enough to pass cursory inspection.  It would not do to for Adolin to know the real reason why she needed her own weight measured, of course.  “It might be a good idea to see how big it should have to be to carry me.  Since I read in a book once that a horse’s rider weight should ideally be around fifteen per cent of its own weight…”

 “Ah – then let me help,” said Adolin, turning around to the weights on the floor.  He picked up a fifty-pound weight with no apparent difficulty, and set it on the measuring tray next to all the smaller lead weights.  

 Shallan stood on the measuring tray while Adolin arranged the weights, and came to the uneasy realisation that this was a measure with her shoes and dress on – she would have to account for that when calculating her progressionals. 

 “Here,” Adolin said at last.  He was not wheezing, nor out of breath in the least.  “That’s … a royal hundredweight, or thereabouts.  Any yearling in the stables would have no trouble with that.  But we would have to train it to take the side-saddle.”

 “Of course.  Thank you—”

 “But that can’t be right – a hundredweight is the size of a newborn foal…” he trailed off.  There was a note of concern in his voice.

 “Did you just insult my weight?” said Shallan, grasping for humourous indignation.  Why was he worried?  He couldn’t have guessed what she needed the measurement for, could he?

 “No,” he said, voice returning to its usual friendly manner.  “Well, maybe.  It just seemed rather small to me.”

 “Not everyone can be blessed with Anglethi proportions.”

 “I know – and I had thought your own Scottish proportions would be a mere novelty.”  He looked at her, and he smiled affectionately.  “But I do not find it disagreeable – no, not at all.”

 Shallan stepped off the scale.  The weighted end hit the floor with a clank.  She took a step toward Adolin, who stepped back.  “You know,” she said softly, looking up at his face in the dim light of the cracked open door.  “We haven’t ever kissed each other standing upright, have you noticed?”

 “Er, I suppose not.”  Adolin cleared his throat and looked sideways; he took another step back.

 “Might you be curious about how it feels?” asked Shallan, stepping forward.  “Just in case it is awkward, and we should know to avoid it in the future.  After all, they say guillotines are the great leveller of men – but I say it is chairs.”

 Adolin’s back hit the shelves with a creak. 

 Shallan rose to her toes; her face was only inches away from his.

 “But – this is the pantry!” he croaked.

 She leaned forward and gently brushed her lips against his, and then stepped back, smiling.  “What did you think pantries were made for?”

 His hand caught hers; he pulled her back.  “For _this_ , possibly,” he said.

 Then he tugged on her hand and she fell into his arms, and they were kissing.  Her arms twined around his neck, and she felt his hand tangling in her hair.  His embrace was firm, but he was nothing but gentle with her.  She slipped one hand into his open, unbuttoned coat, sliding it in until she could feel the muscles of his back under his shirt and waistcoat.  He took a short wheezing gasp of air, and she felt the scrape of tooth against her lower lip.

 “This is _your_ pantry,” she murmured.

 Then his lips were on hers again, warm with promise and expectation.  It was different this time, when it was not in an inn, or in the forest.  There was something about being in one’s home that conferred a measure of safety and comfort and _rightness_ compared to anywhere else – it felt less like roguishness, even if they were in what could be generously described as passionate embrace – below stairs, in the kitchen, and in the semi-dark of the pantry.

 Just as Shallan was thinking that, the pantry door was abruptly dragged open and light spilled in.  She saw the face of a shocked kitchen maid.  The door was closed again immediately, and she heard heated whispering from outside.  She and Adolin pulled away from one another in the pitch blackness; she felt his arm guiding her to stand behind him, blocking her view when the door opened once more.

 _“Ahem,”_ he said.  She could not see his face.  “Well, ah, this inspection of the pantry has been completed and all has been found in order.  My compliments to the cook.  Yes.  Thank you all for your hard work.  Please, carry on.”

 He led her by the hand through the kitchen, and once again, work stopped as they passed, and the ranks of workers dipped into low but clumsy curtseys and bows.  Shallan walked with her head down, letting her hair fall over her ears to cover their furious, almost glowing, warmth; she knew she was blushing – and she could not help but feel the most acute embarrassment.  But there was no shame; she could never feel ashamed or regretful for what she and Adolin had shared in those few private minutes.  She hoped he felt the same.

 When Shallan passed, and she and Adolin approached the door leading out of the servants’ hall, she heard giggles and whispering from the workers.  _“Lady Jasnah,”_ she heard, and _“scientific undertaking,”_ all punctuated by poorly stifled snickering.

 They entered the long portrait gallery. The lamps were unlit and the hall was empty; it was around mid-afternoon.

 Adolin took one deep gulping breath and let it go with a slow hiss.  He was still holding her by the hand.  “Well,” he finally said. _"That_ was a new experience.”

 Shallan looked at him and then at their linked hands.  “You should well know that courage comes in many forms,” she said softly.

 “Yes.  That is truth.”

 

 ***

 

 Adolin opened the door of the retiring room with one hand.  His other hand was holding Shallan’s.  She wondered if he had forgotten about it – because she certainly couldn’t.  She was very profoundly aware of his closeness, and his presence; it was as if something in him was drawing her near – if she had closed her eyes, she thought she might reasonably be capable of finding him without looking.

 “Good, you’re here,” said Kaladin.  He ceased his pacing and looked up.  His eyes narrowed.  “But – _her?_   Really, is it necessary?”

 “You wanted to discuss the events of – last night,” said Adolin.  He turned to her.  “Shallan was there too, Kal.”

 “Fine, fine.”  Kaladin’s eyes swept over her, and lingered on her face.  She realised that her hair was brushed smooth on one side, and the other side was swept messily upward in tangled curls.  She flushed, and pushed it back behind her ear.  He continued, “I talked to the farrier to-day, and showed him the guns and knives Karsten and I collected.  The guns are generic trade models, and are sold by a number of different supply merchants – an easy two dozen companies sell the same model.

“The knives, however – they are _very_ interesting.”

 “What did you find?” asked Adolin.

 Kaladin opened a box on the side table, and plucked out two knives – no, two blades.  “I had the farrier take off the hilts.  Most had the maker’s marks rasped off on the tang – see here – but there was one roughly unfinished – here – where you can see a faint outline of the design that was supposed to be underneath.  And one that was completely untouched.” 

 Adolin took the blades and turned them over in his hands.  They looked quite ordinary: there was a blade the length of a man’s hand, with a narrower tang that was usually wrapped in wood or antler and leather for the grip.  Shallan was no expert on knives, but they were double edged like a spear point, and looked not dissimilar to her brothers’ belt dirks.

 “The maker’s mark,” said Adolin slowly, running a finger down the tang.  “It looks like three diamonds.”

 “Yes.  I showed it around the stable yard, and not one man there could identify it as the work of a local smith.  These were not made in Kholinshire.”

 “Father was right then – foreign saboteurs.”

 “It could be another Duke.”

 A tense silence filled the room.  Shallan tried to understand what she had just learned and compared it to what she knew: that Brother Kabsal was involved with this mysterious group, and they were after something in the temple rather than attempting an assassination.  But Jasnah had once theorised that these same people were the ones who had killed her father, the late King Gavilar I.

 “What would they have to gain?” said Shallan, remembering the conversation with Adolin – before he had turned to speaking of _that_.  “Don’t the Dukes make money so long as the war is going on?  Killing Adolin would result in an immediate retreat from the marshlands and then to a civil war.  I cannot see any Duke benefitting from such a thing.”

 “She’s right.  No Duke would do this.  Not so openly,” said Adolin forcefully.

 Kaladin gave her a wary glance.  “She might be right.  I – don’t know.”

 “Do you not trust Father?”

 Kaladin crossed his arms and exhaled loudly.  There was a tense pause in the conversation, until he finally spoke.  “Your father: he reads too many old books – and forgets that the rules of reality work differently.”

 “He’s not senile!” Adolin insisted.

 “I never said he was.  He’s … impractically idealistic.  What he finds in those books – well, I say the congruencies are merely coincidence.  I’ve read them: there’s no wisdom of ages hidden in there.  It’s out-dated romanticised nonsense of a grand old past that never existed.”

 “Jasnah reads them,” Shallan put in.  “And she thinks they’re important.”

 “The difference is,” said Kaladin coldly, “it’s only you who believes her.  The Prince has twenty thousand following him to wherever he leads them.”

 “You make loyalty sound like a weakness,” remarked Adolin.  “So.  You disagree with Father, like most everyone else.  But last night, a band of assassins – brigands – almost did away with all of us in the Forest.  Twenty miles from my own House!  What do you say to that?”

 “That there are other groups that seek chaos in these times.  We have seen them in Ireland – _before_.”  Kaladin shared a meaningful look with Adolin here, and Shallan did not understand what – incident – they were referring to. 

 “Yes,” agreed Adolin.  “But they were in Ireland.  _Damnation!_   Am I to call for the muster?”  He suddenly seemed hesitant, less assured. 

 Kaladin lowered his voice.  “You must be prepared, for now.  Commission an officer.  Major Khal is presently qualified for a promotion.”

 “Father doesn’t—”

 “I think,” said Kaladin abruptly, turning to Shallan, “Miss Davar ought to go up and change for dinner.”

 Adolin sent her a pleading look.  “Please, Shallan, if you don’t mind – I know it is impossibly rude of Kal – and of me, and I must apologise.  I will see you at dinner, and I will think of something – I do not mean to leave you out.  But—”

 “I understand,” said Shallan in a quiet voice.  She looked up at Adolin’s eyes, and her fingers traced a shape on the back of his hand.  He looked at her, and smiled, and it was as if they were sharing an unspoken conversation; unuttered words passed from one to the other, carrying sentiments of mutual support and affectionate encouragement. 

 Then Kaladin slammed shut the lid of the box and the knives inside clattered loudly.

 When Shallan withdrew, she felt a curious sense of relief that there were things that Adolin did not feel comfortable wanting her to hear.  She speculated that other girls might have felt put-out, or jealous, or unpleasantly vexed if they were not willingly included in their gentleman companion’s company for every moment of his entertaining.   Perhaps that was the reason for Adolin’s so many unsuccessful suits with the countless number of unsuccessful girls. 

 She did not begrudge him his privacy – it made her own secrecy that much easier to bear. 

 

***

 

 Shallan returned to her bedchamber to work on her progressionals.  That infuriating Doctor Kaladin was right – there was one line copied from an old sheet of formulae where she had written a _sigma_ instead of a _nu_ , when it should have been only _nu_ all the way through.  She herself understood the replacement, and it would have meant a negligible difference – thankfully – when it came to actually pouring.  But to any other driftwatchers, with the exception of the extremely well-practiced or well-educated, it would have caused a dreadful confusion.

 How did the Doctor pick it out?  He had done the same thing with her sketchbook in the carriage – did he have very good reflexes along with an accurate eye for observing detail?  These skills would make him an exceptional surgeon, Shallan supposed.  She was not feeling the spirit of charitability enough in herself to readily acknowledge that Kaladin indeed possessed a keen intelligence, along with a respectable conversational wit.

 And why would he tell her that he saw her error?  Wouldn’t it have been better to watch her stumble about, as he had mentioned earlier when she had had trouble getting up to Sureblood’s stirrup?  His own oaths as a healer and physician would not allow him to cause harm to other people, but they said nothing about letting people go about harming themselves – spirit or flesh or anything else – on their own time.  

 She still did not understand why he would do so, when he was so insufferably rude to her; even when he was nominally helping her – by changing her bandages and cleaning her wound – he did not seem to enjoy her presence, or look favourably on her connection with Adolin, nor Adolin’s own attentions on her. 

 When Finnie came to brush her hair and lay out the dress and under-dress for dining, Shallan settled on this:  Kaladin, who did not believe in the inherent privileges or Heavenly origin of social rank, nevertheless considered Adolin his equal.  That made sense, since Adolin was a good man, and it would take a person with a severe and self-imposed blindness not to concede that fact.  He saw Shallan, no doubt, as a manic ether-wretch and a mercenary, and terrible human being in general.  She was not a fit match for Adolin, in his eyes – she was too flawed, too … broken, and not good enough.  And Adolin, being a genuinely kind and gentle man, deserved nothing but the best.

 This was the realisation she came to when she walked through the portrait gallery to the dining room.   It explained his own arrogant and unpleasant attitude toward her, and his own reaction when Adolin had invited her to stay, when they were hiking through the Forest earlier that morning.  Kaladin was only tolerating – suffering – her presence out of loyalty to his patron-employer.   His interest in her well-being was only an extension of Adolin’s.  This sudden spark of comprehension did not make her dislike him less; it only made her aware that were they to reside permanently in the same household, they must settle on an uneasy indifference for the sake of their mutual sanity.

 Shallan reached the dining room, adrift in her own thoughts.  The gentlemen were already there, both dressed in their dining whites, and Adolin pushed in her chair, as usual.  Kaladin took his seat without waiting for the lady to be properly seated.  It seemed a reprise of the dinner two evenings ago, but this time Shallan did not feel much inclined to make conversation.

 The dinner was quiet without her or Kaladin – bickering – at one another.  Adolin also seemed somewhat subdued; the talk of the muster was not something he was particularly pleased with, Shallan guessed.   The first course, a very rich and creamy bisque with floating fragments of crab-things, was eaten in almost total silence.  She wondered if the footmen were disappointed in their lack of conversation – did they enjoy listening to the verbal sparring of the dinner table?

 The second course was brought out, cold potted chicken with buttery garlic sauce, served with peas and sliced aubergine rounds.  That was when the butler stepped out, and whispered in Adolin’s ear.   Adolin nodded, then the butler withdrew and returned with a tray containing a sealed letter and a silver knife.

 Adolin slit the edge of the envelope; Shallan saw that there was an oval wax seal in blue – Kholin blue – with an imprint in the shape of a lozenge, which appeared very similar to Adolin’s own seal ring.  Important business then, to warrant an interruption to their dinner.  Adolin read the message and sighed.   He slid the letter back into the envelope, returned it to the tray, and waved to the butler, who took it and retreated.

 “What is it?” inquired Kaladin.  “Something from the Park?”

 “Yes.  Renarin sends a warning,” said Adolin.  He stabbed at his chicken with irritation.

 “Can it be—?”

 “No! – Not that!” Adolin exclaimed.  “He writes that Jasnah visited him to-day – this morning – to invite him to the formal presentation, which she has set a few days from now.”

 “Where?”

_“Here.”_

 There was a silence as each man tried to process that information.  The footmen took the liberty serve the third course, which consisted of medallions of rare beef baked inside thick sheets of suet pastry.   It was served with a very rich gravy and buttered long beans.  Shallan noticed that every remove appeared to be very rich to-day; on most occasions she liked a hearty meal when she could have it, but this was one hearty meal on top of another, and this – excess – could not sit very well with her stomach.  She stopped the footman after he had poured a tiny circle of gravy on her plate, and noticed Kaladin eying her with scrutiny.

 “What formal presentation is this?” she asked.

 “Mine.  Ours.  I suppose,” said Adolin slowly.  “She wants to present you as her ward – and presumably my, ah, companion, to the Family.  Renarin – my brother – reports that she has already gone to the City to visit Father and order decorations sent over from our townhouse.”

 “Well, it can’t be that bad,” Shallan said.  “I never had an official coming-out like Anglethis do; we don’t really do things like that apart from the annual McValam clan moot.”

 “Well, it wouldn’t be that bad, ordinarily,” Adolin admitted.  “But my royal aunt was at the Park when Jasnah called on Renarin.  Now Renarin is warning me that Aunt Navani is attempting to commandeer the event and turn it into a contest.   She wants to be the successful matchmaker, not Jasnah.

 “Father is returning to the marshlands soon, and Aunt Navani thinks that if she can successfully match me to some lord’s daughter, then she will get a few votes’ worth of extra campaign funds for Father, and a few votes in Parliament for herself.”

 “I am sure she will not force you to pick one at gunpoint,” Shallan said, with a thin smile. 

 Adolin looked at her and reached for her hand over the table.  “No.  Not at gunpoint, but she would have tried if she knew it might work.  The problem is that it won’t be just the Family anymore.  It’s half the Kholinar elite.”

 “I thought you liked those people,” said Kaladin dryly.

 Pudding was served now: bowls containing a brown moist cake-like dessert with a crisp crust of burnt sugar and a dollop of custard.  Shallan took a bite hesitantly; she was not particularly hungry after the previous removes.  _Ugh._   Was that – oatmeal?  Yes.  It was.  Underneath the honey and molasses taste of the pudding, there was the recognisable – unforgettable – almost dry texture of boiled oats.  She did not spit it back out.  That was unseemly.  So she swallowed it, with a grimace of revulsion. 

 “I did,” Adolin said.  He dug into his pudding.  “But they don’t like me.  Not lately.”

 “What did you do to them?”  Shallan noticed Kaladin staring at her.  He was eating his pudding and looking pointedly at her own bowl.  She took another bite.  _Uuuugh._   It was still disgusting the second time around.  The texture was worse than the taste; it dried her tongue out; the aftertaste lingered no matter how much water she drank.

 “I’m the best,” replied Adolin, grinning.  “Number one at the Kholinar Duelling Club.   They’re all jealous.” 

 Kaladin rolled his eyes.  “He won a lot of bets and bankrupted some people of their family estates.  Then he salted their wounds by deeding most of it to his brother, who is not a Club member.  Not even an honorary one.”

“It worked out for the best, you know!  The Shire council has to run everything by Renarin now—”

 Shallan stood, queasily.   Adolin rose to his feet in politeness.  “You must excuse me, sir,” said Shallan.

 “Shallan?”

 “Please, by all means – continue without me.”

 The footman held the door open for her, and Shallan stumbled out into the hall.  She could not reach her own room from here; it was much too far away.  She saw the floral display arranged in a delicately painted porcelain bowl, and pushed the flowers aside; she retched violently.  A chunk of oat pudding, tasting sweet and bitter with her own stomach acid, dropped into the bowl.  It tasted worse going back out; her throat convulsed.  She could feel the heavy dinner churning inside her; she could feel the oesophageal contractions on the brink of returning everything she had eaten.  She bit her lip and concentrated, trying to keep it all in.

 “Do you make this a regular habit?”  It was Kaladin.

 Shallan did not turn around.  “Only when I eat oats.  I ate oats three meals a day for two years.  The texture – it makes me ill,” she managed to choke out.

 “So to-night is the result of a well-meaning but misguided notion of the Duke’s, and not yet another wretched vice of yours?”

 _“I do not purge_ … if that is what you mean,” Shallan croaked, leaning against the flimsy-legged side table that held the flower bowl.  It swayed, and Shallan swayed with it.  “No matter how – fashionable others may think it is.”

 “The Duke informed me of your meeting in the kitchen.”  He caught her by the elbow, and steadied her.

 “That is none – of your concern.”

 “It is my duty now, as of this morning.” 

 “I have told you,” said Shallan, as coldly as she could.   Her voice sounded more ill than intimidating.  “Oats disagree with me.  You may leave now.”

 “Do your courses come regularly?” 

 It took a second for Shallan to understand the meaning of his question.  She straightened up so quickly that the bowl rattled on the table.  She twisted around.  Her head was light and her stomach was heavy.  It was not a pleasant feeling.  “Now _that_ – is definitely nothing of your concern.”

 “It is again my duty to enquire,” said Kaladin, his voice soft.  Was that – concern?  It could not possibly be kindness. She could not tell.  He reached for her shoulder.  “And it is partly your duty too.”

 “My duty?” Shallan managed, with difficulty.

 “The Duchess Kholinar’s duty is to bear the next Duke.”

 The floral display became completely unsalvageable.   Dinner, Shallan thought, retching, was much different looking after it had been chewed up and returned. The taste, peculiarly, was still very similar. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure if you have picked up on it, but Kaladin in this chapter is crushing hard on Shallan, but she is completely oblivious to it. He is conflicted in his feelings because he is friends with Adolin, and tries to hide his kinda obvious flirting under banter, because he doesn't want to tell her he thinks she's cute outright. Shallan only hears the banter and sarcasm and thinks he's being rude as usual. Shallan is an unreliable narrator! Read Kaladin's snark lines without sarcasm and the meaning is closer to how he really feels.
> 
> There are couple of nods to WoR in here. “Are you insulting my weight” is probably the most obvious. :-) Shallan really is spindly for a Horneater.
> 
> \- "certain trees that non-Vorin Continentals revered" - Linden trees are significant in Germanic culture.  
> \- "We could not have matched their rate of fire" - Adolin would have done a last stand to save Kal and Shallan. He's brave but doesn't think he is.  
> \- "the good Doctor will volunteer his skills to her benefit" - Adolin pulls rank on Kaladin and orders him to be doctor and/or bodyguard for Shallan. Comes later on when Kal says "it is my duty".  
> \- "The prospect of your staying" - echoes Shallan's earlier line. The missing word is "forever".  
> \- Kharbranth letter symbols - they are the Greek alphabet.  
> \- "Royal hundredweight" - based on archaic measure IRL called "imperial hundredweight" that was phased out in the 1820's, equivalent to 112 lbs.  
> \- "Your father reads too many old books" - Dalinar isn't the next Joan of Arc, but he does re-read The Way of Kings on loop.  
> \- "That there are other groups that seek chaos in these times" - Referring to Gavilar's assassin and the guerilla outfit that Helaran joined.  
> \- "I will see you at dinner, and I will think of something" - foreshadowing for dessert.  
> \- "did not look favourably on her connection with Adolin, nor Adolin’s own attentions on her." - Gee, I wonder whyyyyy. Kaladin is the perceptive one, and what he sees makes him feel kinda jealous.  
> \- "person with a severe and self-imposed blindness" - Guess what, that person is actually Shallan.  
> \- "It is again my duty to enquire” - Shallan's weight bothered Adolin enough to change the dinner menu, but it's Kaladin who runs the numbers and realises that the state of the Davar finances has probably left Shallan in underweight territory. In this period, potato growing hasn't become widespread yet, so no peasant calorie-bombs, and scurvy is an actual problem.


	12. XII

 “Shallan?” Adolin asked.  Worry tinged his voice.

 Shallan sat on the silk-damask of the retiring room sofa, hugging a tasselled cushion to her chest.  Her hands shook, and her teacup rattled the saucer when she lifted it up.  It contained no tea, but some vile concoction Kaladin had made with a few spoonfuls of a white powder and a teapot of hot water.  It tasted horrendously bitter, and she could feel the grains of it on her tongue and against her teeth – but it took away the sweet molasses aftertaste of the pudding, and it soothed her poor acid-scoured throat. 

 “She’ll be fine,” said Kaladin, from behind her.

 “I’m sorry – I thought it a splendid plan,” said Adolin, miserably.  “The prospect of replacing the kitchen staff is not one to which I look forward.”

 Kaladin paced back and forth by the sidebar.  “You needn’t do so.  You are not ill – neither am I.  It was something that disagreed with only her.”

 “Shallan?  Do you know what it was?”

 Shallan swallowed.  It hurt.  “Oats.”

 “Oh,” he said, then words poured out, hesitant and rambling.  “I must apologise – I thought – well, we spoke of horses to-day.  In the pantry.  It’s what we use for the weanlings – I did not think you would have liked the alfalfa hay or the bone meal.”

 “It’s not your fault.”

 “I – I should have asked.  Asked you, at least.  I asked the cook – and she said that Scots like oats.  I thought it would be a nice reminder – of home.  Shallan?”

 “I want to go home.  _I want my family_. _”_   The vile drink slopped over the rim of the cup and onto her lap.  She buried her face into the cushion, drawing one heaving breath after another, attempting – failing – to maintain her poise and her emotional control.  Her throat was hoarse from its – exertions, and her breath rasped piteously through her clenched teeth.  She did not look up.

 She heard Kaladin stop pacing.  He and Adolin were having a whispered conversation, but it was not difficult to overhear.

  _“Kal – send for the coachman.”_ Adolin’s voice.

_“No.”_

_“What – must I repeat myself, man?”_

_“She’s better off here.”_

_“You heard her – she doesn’t want to be here – she doesn’t want—”_

_“Ask her.  Why she doesn’t –_ can’t _– eat the oats.”_

_“Do you know something?”_

_“Ask.  Her.”_

 She heard footsteps, and then the sofa creaked and bounced as Adolin settled his weight on it, next to her.  “Shallan?” he said softly.  He did not touch her; he waited patiently as the wall clock sliced the hour away, second by second. 

 “Adolin.”  She drew a slow, almost sobbing breath, trying to gather herself together.  Control and poise – that was where true strength lay; it was what Jasnah surrounded herself with, so that no-one could ever touch her, let alone hurt her.  Unrestrained emotion was weakness: it was the point of failure.  And in her father, it was his fatal flaw.  If one could not find control and discipline, thought Shallan fiercely, then one could reach for apathy – it was the next best thing. 

 “Why?  If you don’t mind my asking.”

 “The truth,” said Shallan, reaching and grasping that empty nothingness inside her.  Her fingers loosened their savage grip on the cushion.  “Yes.  Why not.  Loch Davar – our family estate – is mortgaged,” she said, her voice flat.  “To the very bone.  The creditors took whatever could be carried away.  Anything left we sold – for a barnful of oats.”

 “Oh,” Adolin said hesitantly.  “I am – sorry.”

 “It’s all right now,” Shallan mumbled.  She set the cushion down; she had managed to quell that unwelcome outburst of emotion.  Loch Davar was hundreds of miles away in another country, for good or for ill.  “I’m – all right now.  I am just so very tired of oats.  Morning, noon and night until it was just morning and night.”  She paused, and looked at Adolin.  “Then I found Jasnah.”

 Adolin gave her a smile of encouragement.  “And Jasnah brought you here.”

 Adolin reached out with one tentative hand, and caught hers.  He very gently guided her hand to his chest, until her fingers splayed across the starched shirtfront of his dining whites.  She felt the steady meter of his heart.  Why did it have to be that her own heart – a heart that thumped inside her in much the same way – bore all the marks that a person could bear?  It was disfigured; it was scarred – and yet no-one but her would ever be able to tell.

 “I have heard it once said that wealth speaks a language anyone can understand,” whispered Adolin.  He leaned closer, to the creaking of the sofa’s wooden frame; her hand still pressed against his chest.  “Perhaps there are other languages.”

 “Perhaps you might teach me.”

 “Nothing would bring me greater satisfaction.”  He lowered his head until their noses were inches away; his eyes met hers, and there was guilt in them, and sympathy, and a gentle, haltingly tender emotion that she did not want to name.  It was timid and fearful in its own frail existence – and Shallan was not entirely certain she even wanted it to exist; she was sure that mentioning it by name would cause it to dissolve away into shreds of smoke.  Her hand on his chest grew firm; she thrust him away in his approach.  He closed his eyes; she noticed that his eyelashes were yellow and black.  _“Shallan—”_

 “My lips have been tainted with my own sick,” she said.

 “I don’t care.”

 “I have a crusting wound that will scar terribly.”

 “I don’t care.”

 “I am a terrible person who has done terrible deeds.”

 “None of it matters to me.”

 Shallan’s hand pulled back slowly.  Adolin leaned close once more, and she did not push him away.  His lips touched hers with infinite softness.  She turned her head until they were cheek to cheek, her lips by the shell of his ear.

  _“Only because you don’t know what I’ve done,”_ she breathed. 

 Then her lips slanted against his with forceful hunger, and she drew him downward and downward, until her head found the forgotten cushion and the sofa creaked in complaint.  He resisted her spirited eagerness at first, but she tugged at his neckcloth and caught up his jacket’s lapels until he – at last – abandoned reluctance and responded with an equal fervour.  He returned her kisses, returned doubly generous – his lips fluttered against her cheek, and her throat, and then she could feel his warm breath and his warm mouth at her collar.  He nipped at her skin; it was startlingly unexpected; she gasped, and she could feel him chuckling at her reaction.

 “Then you shall tell me when I have earned your trust,” he murmured, and after one last soft kiss, pulled away.  He sat up, cheeks flushed pink, and ran a hand through his yellow striped hair; his eyes met hers, his gaze searching.  “Until then, please stay.”  His voice was low, and rough with emotion – with the rawness of intimacy.  “If you must leave – well, it would be a blow, but it is one I have borne before…” he paused, and looked away, troubled, “—so many times before.”

 Shallan straightened and tugged her skirts down.  “If I must leave, know that it would be with the deepest regret.”

 “And mine too,” he said quietly.  He cleared his throat.  “Now.  If you would please excuse me, I ought to speak to the kitchen staff.  They will no doubt be very anxious about their positions here.”  He stood up with a squeak of the sofa, and absent-mindedly smoothed a hand over his wrinkled shirtfront.  “Kal – do you mind escorting Shallan to her room?”

 He nodded to Kaladin – still standing at the sidebar with the knife box by his hand – and the door opened, and then it closed, and he was gone.  Then it was just she and Kaladin in the retiring room, once more.

 Shallan gripped the frame of the sofa and stood; her legs trembled with the effort.  Kaladin was suddenly there, and he gripped her tightly by the elbow.  His gaze flicked downward to eye the wet spot on her skirt – where she had spilled the restorative drink on herself.  One eyebrow quirked up; she ignored it.

 “Miss Davar,” he said, “if you would come with me?”

 “No.”

 He gave a long-suffering sigh.  “Just for to-night I might say that I value the spirit of charitability – if I must, I will carry you on my back.”

 “I don’t want to go to my room.”

 “If you want to be carried up, Miss Davar – at least have the temerity to say so.  I won’t judge you – too much.”

 “I want to see the stillroom.”

 “No,” replied Kaladin abruptly. He glanced at her, and saw that she was not going to concede the point.  She did not want to stay here the entire night, nor did she want to be carried over his shoulder like a sack of beans – the dizzying heights would certainly cause her to release whatever bile was left in her stomach all over his back.  She would not enjoy it – but at least he would not either.  He looked upward to the moulding of the ceiling, then back to her.  She glared up at him.  _“Fine_.  All right.  But not to-night.”

 “When?”

 “To-morrow,” he said finally.  “Come down in the morning, and I will change your bandages there.  Now will you go to bed?”

 They walked the halls together; one hand guided her by the elbow.  The footmen dimmed and snuffed the chimney lamps behind them.  He did not pull ahead of her; he kept an easy pace that she could manage quite capably, and she did not even need to be carried until they reached the very last flight of stairs.

 

 ***

 

 Shallan dreamt of the endless black sky and the endless sea of beads again that night.  But this time, it was different – she was not alone this time; she was with Jasnah in a little boat poled by a pair of faceless gondoliers, and she did not feel frightened or anxious, even when she heard a screeching and trumpeting in the distance that grew nearer and nearer.  She was not afraid, and the little doves nestled around her scarred heart cooed their defiance.

 When she woke – on her own – she did not rise immediately; she lay on her back staring at the closed canopy curtains.  It felt good to finally, for once, be able to fall asleep and wake naturally – no prior engagements, no champing horses and impatient coachmen, no hopping about in dim pre-dawn light pulling on stockings with feverish haste.  Then she became aware of an urge to visit the water closet, and was eventually forced to rise.  Well, at least her rising for _that_ particular reason was still by her own prerogative, and not anyone else’s.

 At her return from the bathing chamber, she saw Finnie uncovering a breakfast tray on the vanity.  A cup of steaming broth, boiled eggs, fried ham, buttered bread, jam and tea were laid on the table, next to a crisp white napkin and polished silverware.  Shallan was suddenly ravenous; the incident last night meant she had effectively gone to bed without dinner.

 “Where is the stillroom?” she asked, her mouth full.

 “My lady?” said Finnie, unbuttoning the roll of brushes.  “It’s by the kitchens.  If you want extra butter or preserves, you must ring and send someone for them.  It wouldn’t do to go down yourself.”

 Shallan could see that her eyes were downcast with proper deference in the looking glass; there was a trace of humour to the maid’s tone.  “Does everyone in this House know about _that?”_

 “If by _that_ my lady means the pantry – it was the talk of the servants’ hall until dinnertime,” admitted Finnie, tugging the brush through Shallan’s hair.

 “Heavens, I suppose there is to be no privacy around here,” Shallan groaned.  She tore her bread roll in half and smothered it with jam.  Good jam could always improve the mood.

 “If my lady would like privacy,” said Finnie, smiling genially, “she might ask His Lordship to dismiss all the staff from the kitchen when she wants the use of the pantry.”

 “The stillroom,” said Shallan, blushing furiously; she changed the subject.  “Where is it?”

 “By the trades entrance on the West Courtyard, my lady – unless you mean the Doctor’s stillroom.”  Finnie braided Shallan’s hair; she had pins stuck through the waistband of her apron.

 “Yes, I want that one.”

 “Then it’s in the North Wing.  But – if you wanted the Doctor to tend your wound—” Finnie glanced down at Shallan’s back, where the layered white of bandaging was visible through her shift, “—you should send for him to come up and see you.  Even if my lady wanted _other things_ seen to, the Doctor oughtn’t to forget that he _is_ His Lordship’s retainer, and you _are_ His Lordship’s lady.”

 By now, Shallan had begun to develop an understanding of Finnie’s ambiguous references to … earthier subjects.  She was not certain on the specifics of what exactly the maid spoke, but she could vaguely discern to what they were meant to refer.  Shallan had enough information from both books and Madame Tyn’s lessons on the feminine mysteries to feel that she would not make herself the fool, if she were to enquire further on the particulars.  Not that she would want to ask for the details – it was still likely to be unavoidably embarrassing.

 And of course, the fact that Doctor Kaladin knew more about the feminine mysteries than she – now that was a disturbing thought.  Shallan consoled herself with the knowledge that she was not the only woman to be found lacking in this department – it seemed as if there were a number of downstairs maids who came to him regularly for various bits of advice.  So it was not really a fault in herself, but rather an anomaly in the Doctor.  She doubted Adolin or her brothers would know as much he did in those matters.  Or many other theoretical or academic subjects, at that.

 “Doctor Kaladin,” said Shallan slowly, thinking up a quick excuse, “asked to see my etchings a few days ago, and was so impressed by them that he invited me to view his collection of medical charts.  I imagine he would like copies made – or enlargements, I suppose – and I informed him that I would be happy to oblige.”

 “Oh – my lady, what a wonderful idea,” said Finnie, with a cheery wink.  “I should pack your satchel with the books and pen box for you; you will need it if you are to do anatomy studies or suchlike.” 

 “Yes, how terribly wonderful,” Shallan replied.  It seemed like last evening’s unexpected truth-telling had not affected her skill at prevarication; that pleased her – it was such a very useful skill to have, especially when one might need to speak an untruth that could border a truth so closely that no-one would be able to tell where the lines merged.  “Doctor Kaladin could not accept monetary payment for his very charitable treatment of _this_. _”_   She plucked at the neckline of her shift, which lay over her bandaged chest.

 “He is a very generous man – just like your Duke,” said Finnie, as she tidied up the vanity and cleared the breakfast things.  “My lady, if it’s not too bold of me – you’d do us much good if you were to put in a kind word for us downstairs girls.  It is a great shame for a man of the good Doctor’s position to be without a wife.”

 “I cannot for my life imagine the Doctor – _married_.  The mind boggles.  Nevertheless, I shall make what enquiries I can; perhaps he is partial to some girl or another in the House.” 

 Shallan stood patiently as she was laced up – loosely – and dressed in her blue silk day dress.  Finnie swept a few specks of lint off her shoulders and passed her the satchel.  “Have fun, my lady,” she said, as she knelt at Shallan’s feet and slid them into a pair of soft kidskin slippers. 

 Then it was time to find Kholinar Court’s North Wing and see the stillroom at last.  Shallan had her half-completed progressionals folded in between the pages of her sketchbook.  They were only a dozen sheets of paper, but somehow they weighed her satchel down like a dozen books; she felt a queer sense of dread for carrying them on her person.  Could it perhaps be due to shame?  She brushed it off; she knew it for a vice – everyone did – and there was no use for mawkish lingering over it.  It was what it was.  As for the differentiation between right and wrong, or reason and respectability: none of it existed in the drift.

 She walked downstairs, and through the empty hallways of the grand House, occasionally peering into side corridors and reading the polished brass nameplates fixed to the doors as she passed – _Lapis,_ and _Cerulean,_ and _Sapphire_.  Kholinar Court was a house so large that the rooms had to be named for people to easily find them.  Shallan thought that it must be terribly lonely to live by oneself in such a large house, even if it was a House shared with an indoors staff of forty souls.  No wonder Adolin sought companionship in the Doctor – and herself.  Marquess Kholinshire – Adolin’s bachelor brother – she recalled, lived in a smaller house and enjoyed the company of their aunt, the Queen Dowager.

 Shallan passed a pair of maids carrying buckets filled with assorted cleaning paraphernalia – she could see the feathered heads of dusters.  They stood aside for her and curtsied as she walked by, and she heard them whispering and giggling to one another; she caught the word _pantry_ more than once. 

 How very envious one could be for the lives of those who did not have a care about upholding the dignity of one’s position at all times.  And it was worse here in Anglekar – the people here were more reserved and rank-conscious than they were in Scotland.  Those who claimed kin or pledged fealty to The McValam were all clansmen and equals in his eyes; there was a divide between those who paid their respects through mere taxes, compared to the clansmembers who paid in money as well as blood and oaths – but it wasn’t a very large one.

 Shallan reached the door at the end of the corridor.  It was on the ground floor, and she could see the front gardens from one bank of windows; the other side was a view of a North Courtyard – outside, there were rows of hothouses with a few lines of laundry strung between them.   

 The door had a brass plate with _KALADIN_ engraved on it.  She knocked.  It wasn’t answered.  She waited a minute, then knocked again.  There was still no response after several long and anxious minutes.  She raised her hand once more – and then the door opened. 

 Kaladin stood at the open door, lips thin with annoyance.  His collar was askew.  “Come in, then,” he growled.

 “Well, good morning to you too, Doctor,” said Shallan blithely, and swept past him into the stillroom – then stopped.  There was a woman in a maid’s uniform.  She had brightly flushed – or were they rouged? – cheeks and her bodice had been laced up tight in the front – in what Finnie had described as the way women did when they wanted to catch a man’s eye.  Shallan was sure that it would not pass the butler’s livery inspection.

 The woman saw Shallan, and then her eyes darted to Doctor Kaladin and back to her.  She gave a brief curtsey to Shallan with a muttered _my lady_ and brushed past her to the door.  Kaladin handed her a basket; she took it and Shallan thought she was going to reach for an embrace, but the Doctor stepped around her with well-practiced ease.  He waited for her to pass the threshold, and as soon as she did, he closed the door and shot the bolt.

 “It’s ten minutes to noon,” he said, pulling at his collar.

 “It’s still morning,” Shallan replied, looking around the room.

 It was high-ceilinged, with narrow rectangular windows on two sides, overlooking the Courtyard hothouses. There was a screened-off section in the corner. There were benches along the walls, and over those were glass-fronted cabinets filled with glassware organised by type.  The glass beakers were arranged upside down in rows, and the conical flasks had their mouths covered by white paper secured with strings – they were expensive, Shallan knew, especially the graduated ones; she had made do at home with empty whisky bottles, and here Kaladin had a whole room full of them.

 The centre of the room held two worktables with their surfaces covered in steel sheeting – another extravagance – how well the Duke indulged his creature.  But – as Shallan saw – everything in the stillroom was practical and utilitarian, and appeared well-used; there looked to be no unnecessary decoratives, and the Doctor could not have been accused of squandering his patron’s generosity.

 “Is this the stillroom?” said Shallan, turning about to peer at a lamp stand with mirrored reflectors.  “I thought there would be more jam.”

 “That’s the other one – the newer one, by the kitchens,” said Kaladin as he brought his medical kit bag over to her.  “This one used to belong to the Kholinar Duchesses in the past.  Now, get on the table and unlace yourself.”

 Shallan hopped onto the steel-covered tabletop.  It didn’t squeak – it must be used to taking the weight of human bodies, she thought.  “What happened to it?  This stillroom, not the Duchesses, I mean.”

 “It became unfashionable for noble ladies to turn their hands to practical tasks.” 

 She smelled ether faintly now, as she unbuttoned her dress, pulled down her underdress, and unlaced her bodice.  It was cold in this room, and she could feel the rise of little bumps like plucked chicken skin.  A cold room, she knew, would mean less ether lost as vapour into the air; that was something one always needed to remember whilst driftwatching during the summer months. 

 Kaladin placed his kit bag on the table beside her, and began to untie the bandage.  She closed her eyes; she did not flinch at his touch.  “If there was one attribute,” she said, “in which society could find me wanting—”

 “Only one?”

 “—I should say,” Shallan continued, ignoring him, “that the pre-eminent one would be my being fashionable.  In fact, the clothing from my clan presentation would likely still fit.”

 Kaladin snorted.  “Your fatal flaw, really.  How you must suffer.”

 Shallan bit her lip as he swabbed ether over the cut on her ribs.  “Then I suppose – you have your equivalent flaw,” she choked out.  “You must wake up every morning with your trouser hems an inch shorter than the evening before.”

 “I haven’t noticed such.”

 “Ask the maid,” she replied sourly – could that be interpreted as jealousy?  She had meant it to be cutting.  “And your shoes – you must get them resoled by the farrier.”

 “Wearing large shoes should hardly be considered a flaw,” Kaladin said.  He scraped a clear jelly-like paste into a cloth and smeared it over her wound; it smelled like herbs and tingled when it touched her skin.  “If you asked the maids, of course.”

 “What would they say, perchance?”

 He placed a new pad of white cloth over her wound, and unrolled fresh bandages.  “I couldn’t say.”

 “They might say you wear large socks.”

 “Is that all?”

 “And that you have large…”

 “…Yes?”

 “Feet!”

 He sighed, and she could not tell if he was amused or not.  But she supposed he did not look particularly grim, or grimmer than usual.  “Get dressed, Miss Davar.”

 Shallan slid off the table, pulling on her bodice and underdress.  She turned around for modesty.

 “What’s that – here, is that a rash?”

 She stopped.  “Doctor?”

 “Here, let me look,” he said.  Then his hand cupped her bare shoulder and brushed away her hair.  His scarred finger traced a light circle around a small reddish-pink mark near her collarbone.  “Hm, an isolated spot, and the skin isn’t raised. Minor broken blood vessels, it seems.”

 Shallan looked down and saw it.  _“Oh—”_ she mumbled, and paused.  “Adolin—”

 He jerked his hand back, hesitated for an instant, then caught up the handle of medical bag; he looked away to give her some privacy to re-clothe herself.  He coughed.  “Well, carry on, then.”

 Shallan laughed.  “If men are like hounds, a little bite means he likes me.”

 “Unfortunately.”

 She finished dressing, and did up the last button.  “Oh come now, Doctor, you cannot still think I am a nuisance!”

 Shallan started inspecting the room in detail now, and walked past the benchtops by the wall.  A covered microscope – two of them, for two levels of magnification – useful for either live specimens or prepared slides.  A spirit burner and chafing dish on an iron stand.   A scullery service with a tub and a pump handle.

 “I think it, and I shall keep thinking it.  I do not think I could change that opinion of you – or any reason why I should,” he said solemnly.  Then his voice turned to sharpness.  _“Don’t touch anything.”_

 Shallan had been about to reach for the distillation equipment on an iron stand.  She looked around guiltily, and withdrew her hand.   It really was a nice kit – it was a large one, and by the looks of it, could manage thrice the volume of the small one Jushu had won for her in a card game.  And everything was matched – the Doctor wouldn’t have needed to use clay to seal the edges where a mismatched set lacked perfect alignment.

 “I wasn’t—” she began, but corrected herself.  She was going to touch it; that could not be denied.  Not believably.  “I wasn’t going to break anything.  And you have a thermometer, too!”

 Kaladin grunted.  “Yes.  And a scale balance.  Three sizes of them.”

 “You guessed – when Adolin told you about … the pantry?”

 “It wasn’t very difficult,” he replied.  He unlocked a glass-fronted cabinet and placed the ether bottle he had used on her wound inside.  The cabinet was full of brown glass ether bottles, neatly labelled with the date of purchase and the concentration.  He closed the door with a click and relocked it; the key on a string with a few others was dropped into his coat’s interior pocket. 

 “Why don’t you want it?”

 “Ether?”

 “You carry it with you, you pour it on your hands – do you douse yourself with it in lieu of bathing?” Shallan said softly.  “Yet you don’t yearn for it.  Not like I do.”

 “Because it is merely a tool.”

 “And I am its tool.”

 “No,” he said, voice firm.  “You haven’t found peace within yourself.”

 “Romanticist words from a cynic.  They don’t flatter you,” said Shallan, smiling.  “And you have?  Found peace?  Do elaborate.  I’m sure your story is bound to involve will-o’-the-wisps and wise sages with long hair.”

 “Hmph,” Kaladin grunted, and turned from the cabinet.  “It’s not a story that is particularly suited to sharing with fairer company.”

 “When did you care about preserving my dignity or modesty?  Have I any left of it that you haven’t yet seen?” answered Shallan, sitting herself back on the steel worktable.  She swung her legs idly from side to side, and lowered her voice.  “You are addressing one of fairer company who shot a man not two days ago.”  She picked up her satchel and hugged it to her chest; its solid weight pressed against her wad of wrapped bandage.

 Kaladin leaned against the edge of the benchtop opposite; he crossed his arms and blew out an irritated breath.  “All right then,” he muttered.  “When the old King died, the Dukes called for the muster, and my younger – foolish – brother joined.  I signed on as a medic as soon as I completed my education, to find him.  But I couldn’t, and I was too late, and he died.  The end.”

 “And that’s it?  That’s how you found peace?”

 “No.  It took a long time, during which I was a very angry man.  But I learned a lesson – a lesson that as a surgeon, I should have learned long ago.  That there will always be those who cannot be saved.  And that was my peace.” 

Shallan rocked back on the table; she covered her mouth with one hand and looked away, suddenly mortified.  “That morning – in the church.  Oh, Doctor, I am so sorry.  I regretted it immediately – it was hasty, and it was wrong of me.”

 “Well,” said Kaladin finally.  “Perhaps there’s some hope for you yet.  What happened to your own brother?”

 Shallan unbuckled her satchel, and drew out her sketchbook.  She flicked past the folded pages of painstaking calculations tucked into the back, and opened to the watercolour of Loch Davar.  Her hands shook; the pages rustled.  Kaladin was silent. 

 “When my mother died,” she said carefully, drawing out the unwelcome memories.  She pushed the worst ones back – and away – and only took up the – tolerable, if they could be called that at all – ones.  “My father became a different man – angry, hateful, violent – and it was so very removed from who he once was.   My eldest brother protected us from his anger, until one day they fought, and then he left, and there was no-one to protect us.

 “I do not know where Helaran went.  Perhaps he joined the war – he was always strong-willed – and he never came back.  The war has taken away so many young men—” she remembered crippled Ardents she had seen at home, and how curious it was that an able-bodied man of potential like Brother Kabsal had dedicated himself to the church, “—the ones that come back are never the same.”

 “An unfortunate truth.”  Was he speaking of himself?  Or all the young men in the marshlands, riddled with lead shot and field infections?

 “My other brothers sought protection in ether,” Shallan said quietly, then turned to the sketch she had drawn from a memory – of Jushu asleep in the drift.   She turned the sketchbook around to face Kaladin, and held it out.  “Here.  Doctor?”

 Something flickered behind his eyes.  Recognition?  Apprehension?  He caught his breath; he was startled, and she could just barely discern the change from his normal stern demeanour and grim countenance.   Then it was gone, like it had never happened.

 Shallan fished for an explanation.  “Doctor?  Do you know my brother Jushu?  I was not aware he had ever left Scotland.”

 “No.  I do not know any Jushu Davar.”  He paused, and Shallan waited for him to continue.  She waited.  After a while, he said, “I thought he shared a resemblance to someone I once … encountered before.  But I seem to be mistaken.”

 “Oh,” said Shallan.  It was all she could think of to say; she was immensely disappointed.  “I – I miss my brothers.  They were – _they are_ – my family.  And they loved me, and I loved them, and we all of us were wretches together.”

 “You are no wretch,” Kaladin insisted, “—you do not have to be.  Find your peace.”

 “How?”

 “You must want – you must enjoy – your own life more than those – illusions.  You must find true substance in this life.  If you cannot – then abandon your old one, and grasp another.  Few people are offered such opportunity.”

 “And here I was under the impression that you disliked the prospect of my being a Duchess,” said Shallan, reaching for something flippant to fill the silence. 

 His words were a harsh truth, and they made her feel uncomfortably ungrateful, and even more uncomfortably aware of how very – selfish – her behaviour was, and had been.  She could always deflect the blame to Jasnah’s influence, or even Madame Tyn’s, but she knew that it was all her, in the end.  Her own selfish, flawed soul; her own marked spirit; her own disfigured heart.  Only her flesh was unsullied – except for that very recent, smarting cut that she bore over her ribs – the one Adolin did not care about, the one she bared to Kaladin’s eyes and his surgeon’s hands every day since she had gotten it.

 “What I like or dislike is irrelevant,” said Kaladin stiffly; he glanced over to the opposite wall, at the bank of wall cabinets near a copper steam boiler – there was a clock on the workbench there.  “Now, if you are quite finished, I should like to think it is near time for luncheon.”

 

***

 

 They walked to the foyer of the House together, silent in their own thoughts.  The hallways bustled with more activity than it had earlier that morning; it fairly hummed with poorly contained enthusiasm.  The servants remembered themselves enough to pay their proper courtesies to Shallan and Kaladin as they passed, but when they turned the corner, they resumed their eager chattering.

 Something had happened; something was happening, and Shallan knew not what it was.

 The foyer was central to this fevered display of animation; by the time she and Kaladin had found their way there, their path was blocked by footmen shouldering large blue rolls of fabric.  There were even grounds staff – gardeners and grooms – who had been instructed to move furniture about, all to the direction of the butler and under-butler.

 “Please, what is going on?” Shallan asked, tapping the butler on the shoulder.

 He paused mid-order, and turned.  He glanced at Shallan, recognised her as Adolin’s personal guest, and bowed deeply.  “My lady – Lady Jasnah has ordered ornamentals removed from Kholin House in the City; they were carted here and arrived just now – and we are to arrange them for the Feast.”  He turned to the under-butler, and muttered a few brief instructions, then returned to Shallan.  “The King will be in residence!  We have not had the pleasure since his coronation!” 

 “Oh – is this all for Lady Jasnah’s formal presentation, then?” said Shallan.

 “I think it has gone beyond formal, and past ceremonial, and is now currently edging into garish,” remarked Kaladin.  They watched as four footmen emerged from a corridor, carrying a pianoforte between them.  “Actually, I imagine it is already there.”

 “It’s a grand Feast!” exclaimed the under-butler, looking up from his wallet diary.  “Lady Jasnah said it should be grand like the Feasts in the City.  We haven’t had a Feast at the House since the His Lordship became Duke.”

 “The Feast may be in a few days,” said Kaladin.  “But is there luncheon now?”

 “The Cobalt Room, sir.  His Lordship is awaiting you there.”  The butler turned back to the under-butler when there were no more questions.  His manner was abrupt and his attention to service not quite as thorough as it ought to have been.  Clearly he had decided that Lady Jasnah’s orders and precedence – not to mention the King’s – trumped the interruption of the Doctor and Shallan, who possessed the status of ducal employee and guest respectively.

 Shallan was not much agitated by that interaction with the butler, but something about it must have rankled Kaladin’s sensibilities.  He strode with brisk pace on his long legs – and admittedly large feet – and although Shallan could maintain her place at his side, it was not effortless for her.

 Ladies’ slippers were made for sedate strolling, at such a speed that one would never risk a skirt riding out of place – it really wouldn’t do to remind passing menfolk that there existed anything above one’s ankle.  They were never meant for jogging, or any other activity that might cause a lady to perspire.  In fact, as Shallan was reminded, a proper lady never gave the impression that she _could_ perspire, or for that matter, that she might ever require a water closet.  There was even a very old-fashioned type of dowager who thought that ladies should not even let other people observe them eating.  One still had to eat, of course, so the well-bred should learn to dine without appearing to chew.

 Madame Tyn, who made an unorthodox governess in many respects, nevertheless believed that the outward observation of social courtesy was important to those who sought to circulate within the upper echelons.  Shallan had, to her great displeasure, been forced – by the guidance of a reed switch – to walk with a book on her head, and to dance with stiff pointed toes until her knees smiled.  At least these lessons had been balanced by Shallan’s being taught to read a sextant, write a Muscovy alphabet cipher, or counterfeit a Kujawiak shepherdess if she was desperate enough.

 But the most bothersome fact of all was that not one of these lessons had contributed to her attaining Adolin’s affections.  The skills she had been instructed on in her girlhood were ones that were meant to show herself to advantage, and Adolin hadn’t ever seen them – nor did she think he might care if he did.  And he had no mother who was the usual judge and jury of such things in prospective daughters-in-law. 

 She had so far earned his attentions by being the bright and convivial Shallan, the light-hearted girl she had always wished she truly was – it was also someone that took barely any effort to play, because that Shallan was _her_ , like one face of a coin.  The other face had been partially – incautiously – revealed to him the evening past after the disaster of a dinner.  And yet Adolin had not recoiled in disgust or horror at the revelation that she might be anything but a perfect pretty doll. 

 Could she trust Adolin, trust him completely?  Did husbands – lovers – gentlemen suitors – whatever he might be or become – even require knowledge of their lady’s hidden secrets in order to share a happy marriage?  She did not know.  Those married couples of high rank slept in separate bedrooms, as that was the civilised thing to do, and on the occasion when they did not, it was usually in darkness.  Managing one’s business in darkness, as Finnie said, had sounded like commonplace behaviour. 

 What would happen if she let herself trust him – if she let him see the parts of her that she held close, so closely around her spirit that had been marked time and again?  Her life had been disappointment and anguish, one after another; those she trusted were often those who most made her regret her faith in them.  Madame Tyn had left, when they could not find the funds to pay her.  Helaran had left, when he could not stand to bear her father’s presence any longer; her father had – _gone away_ – after Mother’s death, and when he came back to his mind again, it was not the same mind that had returned. 

 What was the chance that Adolin might become someone else – someone who could elicit terror and dread and uncertainty?  And if it happened at a point in her life where she had no option to run – if she were bound to him, bound in that way Jasnah feared most about men, what recourse did she have?  Malise had not run; her motherly love had been her chains—

  _“Oof—!”_ Shallan groaned, as she ran into Kaladin’s back.  It was quite a solid back, and she bounced off it.

 Kaladin turned around, saw her flailing, falling – and with exceptional nimbleness, grasped her by the wrist. 

 “Kal, Shallan!” said Adolin in greeting, as the door to the Cobalt Room opened.  His eyes took in that frozen scene, and his face fell.  “Shallan?  Are you really so distressed to see me – after last night – that Kal had to drag you here?”

 Kaladin dropped her wrist as if burned.  Adolin almost flailed and fell himself as Shallan leaped at him and threw her arms around him, hugging and hugging him until his ribs creaked in protest.  But he caught himself, and he hugged her back eventually, confused and bemused at her unanticipated – unexplained – forwardness.

 Shallan’s cheek pressed against Adolin’s chest, and he patted her back tentatively.  Adolin had a nice chest – quite respectable actually, and decently broad, or so Shallan thought.  One thing she had recently discovered about active young men was that they could never be described as squishy; there was just not enough padding on them to make them suitable for laying on, as pillows were.

 Adolin, although he wasn’t perfect, was a good man; she had seen it that night in the forest, and she could see it now.  For now, at least, she did not have to fear him.  She did not have to love him – how that word all but withered and squirmed in her mind when she searched it out and pinned it down with cold savagery – but in this instant, she did not have to feel afraid.

 Adolin’s hand moved from her back; he patted her on the head.  “Shallan?” She nuzzled against his chest, and he laughed.  “Shallan – that tickles!”

 “Adolin,” she sighed.  She let go before he could start rubbing her nose or feeding her carrots. 

 They had their lunch in the Cobalt Room – a small and informal dining room – and they enjoyed a light lunch with a consommé first remove, followed by steamed brined chicken accompanied by a beet salad.  There were no over-rich sauces this time, nor oatmeal, and Shallan barely noticed when Kaladin’s wineglass was replaced by a short cup of smallbeer.

 “Jasnah is to arrive by noon to-morrow,” said Adolin, as he sawed at his chicken.  “I had a letter from her this morning informing me that she will be exceedingly disappointed in the butler if the Teal Room has been touched.  And she wants me to tell you that she will also be exceedingly disappointed in you, if you haven’t managed certain _tasks_ by the time she is back.

 “And for some reason she wrote the word _‘_ _tasks’_ in all upper-case and circled it several times.  I expect it must mean something to you.”

 Shallan’s fork hovered in mid-air.  “I had forgotten about Jasnah’s returning.  I suppose the good Doctor will be not be disappointed to find himself relieved from chaperon duties from to-morrow.”

 “In all truth,” said Doctor Kaladin, shuffling the peas on his plate about, “chaperon duty was not as much of a nuisance as I had expected it to be.  However, the prospect of a lifetime of such a duty is something I should still find objectionable.”

 “Well,” Shallan said graciously, “we are all terribly grateful for your sacrifice.  If not for you, I may have bled out in the forest.  You mightn’t have cared about much about me, but the state of Adolin’s wardrobe – we are lucky it was nothing more than his waistcoat that I ruined.”

 “That was in poor taste, Shallan.   I’m sure the Doctor cares for your well-being, even if he has a mite of trouble showing it.”  Adolin waved over a footman to refresh his plate.

 “Yes, Miss Davar,” said Kaladin with a light tone.  “And what if I did?”

 “Then you should know – if you didn’t already – that there are some people who cannot be saved.  And then there are those people who don’t want to be.”

 Kaladin studied her face from under his black eyebrows.  “Then _you_ should know that the only way to determine who can or cannot be saved is by trying.”

 Adolin glanced at Shallan, and then to Kaladin; he flashed them both a delighted grin.  “Marvellous!  We are all civil together – that is only a small step away from our being mutual friends!  And neither of you thought it could happen – well, to-day the both of you have been proven wrong.  Someone send for an Ardent, because I think my spirits have been Elevated!”

 Shallan and Kaladin groaned at his joke.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shallan is starting to realise that maybe she and Kaladin don't have to be just indifferent to one another. Maybe they can actually talk about things and be friends, instead of verbally attacking each other at every opportunity. When they banter, it's doesn't always have to be mean – let’s make it flirty. Of course, Kaladin is still crushing on her. He is glad to see a more friendly attitude from her, but is that all he wants? And how does it conflict with his friendship with Adolin?  
> This chapter is full of callbacks and references to previous ones. The most prominent one is probably to Shallan's throwaway line in Chapter 2 about selling the aluminium necklace for food. 
> 
> \- "It’s what we use for the weanlings" - Adolin is better at dealing with horses than women lol. The weanling diet is pretty much food you give to foals to make them put on weight so they reach their full size potential quickly. Hence Kaladin describing Adolin as misguided but well-intentioned.  
> \- "she doesn’t want" - Kaladin is better at understanding girls and giving relationship advice. And Adolin's missing word is "me".  
> \- Stillrooms - Room in manor houses where medicines, soaps and perfumes were made. Eventually they were for making cordials, jams and preserves, and were overseen by a cook. Kholinar Court has two, but one has been converted to Kaladin's infirmary.  
> \- "perhaps he is partial to some girl or another" - Shallan is still oblivious.  
> \- "If there was one attribute" - Shallan is referencing her chemistry skills being unfashionable, along with her clothing.  
> \- Farrier - blacksmith for horses. The guy who replaces horseshoes.  
> \- “Unfortunately.” - could Kaladin actually mean that it's unfortunate that Adolin likes Shallan, rather than Shallan being unlikeable?  
> \- "will-o’-the-wisps and wise sages with long hair" - shoutout to Syl and Zahel.  
> \- "Do you know my brother Jushu?" - Kaladin never met Jushu. But he did meet someone who looked similar. I wonder who it could be. :-O  
> \- “What I like or dislike is irrelevant” - Emphasis on the "I". Poor Kal.  
> \- “Shallan – that tickles!” - I have decided that Adolin is a ticklish guy. It makes him more endearing, ok!  
> \- "We are all civil together" - callback to Chapeter 5, Adolin and Shallan outside the church.  
> \- "Someone send for an Ardent" - one of my favourite cheesy joke formats, where they go along the lines of "Did someone call for an X, because my Y is Z!"


	13. XIII

 Shallan carefully cut the copied mural pages from her sketchbook with her charcoal knife, and laid them on the bed in the order she had drawn them.  She had remembered to label each sheet with a number on the bottom corner – a tedious habit she now found very useful.  It was different when it was laid flat instead of arranged in the circular panoramic of the original.  The scale was much less impressive for one – and with its much smaller size, she could now discern a beginning to the piece.  There was a front rank, depicting a Knight with Squires attacking a great craggy beast; there were a number of mythical beasts behind it, not identically shaped, but still menacing in their enormous size and their red eyes which had been painted on the tower wall with powdered mica.

 There was a rank at the very back – or start of the piece.  Shallan did not know if circular paintings were designed to have specific starts or ends, especially allegorical religious works representing the Almighty’s endless cycle of years.  She supposed that it could be the point where the mural’s artist had laid the first stroke of paint.  This beginning portrayed the Ten Heralds, their backs to swirling storm clouds, their legendary blades held in the air in fierce defiance to the monsters that threatened their army of heroes.  But no – they were not pointing their blades directly at the mythic beasts: they were holding their swords in the air.  Pointing at something in the sky?

 She had not drawn the sky in the mural.  It had been too high up – tens of feet in the air – and visible only from the stairs.  Shallan had drawn the mural from the floor, by candlelight, and that had given her only enough illumination to capture the closest ranks of Knights and Champions with their swords and cannon horses.  Did they even have cannons back then, with their lost arts?  There were no cannons in the mural.  Shallan recalled that cannons had first been used as siege-breakers on the Continent four hundred years ago; Jasnah had said the last cycle began over four thousand years ago.

 Kaladin, before he had left her in the darkness – she skimmed over that memory – had said there were stars in the sky, red stars painted with mica.  What could they mean?  Shallan decided that she needed to find astronomical charts, and an astronomer or mathematician who could calculate reverse trajectories for the movement of heavenly bodies.   She herself was not a terrible arithmetician – or bookkeeper – when it came to it, but her experience had been limited to several narrow disciplines in the applied sciences.  It had been good enough for Jasnah, but her knowledge on theoretical grand-scale celestial gravimetrics was sufficiently lacking in that she scarcely knew which questions were imperative to the continuation of her research.

 She resolved to ask Jasnah when she returned; Jasnah would know what to do – she always did.  Jasnah was the planner; she had the experience and the connections to make the right enquiries, and unknot seemingly unsolvable problems with either authority or money; Jasnah was a firm proponent of shooting the engineer when it became necessary.  Jasnah could be trusted to take charge – she had promised to, when she had taken Shallan up as guardian to her ward.  She had been the connection of influence and consequence enough to keep the creditors of Loch Davar at bay; she had ascertained the details of Shallan’s financial complications and arranged the advantageous connection with Adolin.  Jasnah could be relied on to sort everything out – and she was to return to-morrow.

 For now, Shallan wrote out her notes and possible hypotheses on the mural, as well as the details she had picked out after a careful viewing of the sketches.  Why, for instance, were the swords so large as to be almost the same size as the Knights holding them?  The Heralds themselves had smaller swords.  They reminded her of the amusingly oversized swords held by the former Kholin Dukes in the portrait gallery, with their fussy – and useless – ornamentations such as the flanges shaped like waves-in-motion or tongues of flame.  Would not such swords be too heavy to carry for battles longer than a half hour, especially with the weight of extraneous decoratives?  Adolin had not any difficulties with the fifty pound lead weights in the pantry, but even he could not be expected to hold them for hours at a time.

 Shallan busied herself in the research for the next few hours – since Jasnah _had_ sent the letter with the word _‘_ _tasks’_ circled several times.  Shallan knew she had put off her scholarship during the recent and unfortunate developments of being wounded and taken ill; they seemed reasonable enough justification for postponing studies to _her_ , but she doubted that Jasnah would see it quite the same way.  If Jasnah were to be shipwrecked or molested by highwaymen, Shallan believed that she would find a means to continue her quest for knowledge and historical truth.

 She did not look up until Finnie knocked at the door with a freshly pressed dress for dinner.

 “My lady,” said Finnie, looking for a place to lay the dress; the bed had been taken over by the charcoal sketches and there were now grey streaks of charcoal powder on the bed-cover.   “Are you excited for the Feast?”

 Shallan hurriedly got to her feet, snapping her sketchbook shut.  She snatched up the sketches, and roughly sorted them into a loose pile by their numbered corners.  “The Feast?  I understood it was to be a simple presentation.”

 Finnie laughed.  “The cook has cleared out every dry goods purveyor in Courtlea.  The butler has sent for the Kholinshire Park household staff to help.  We had none of this for the Marquess’s reception when he was commissioned a year or so ago.”

 “Oh my,” said Shallan slowly, sliding her sketchbook into the vanity drawer.  “How very – daunting.”

 “I’m pleased to be looking after you, my lady,” said Finnie, looking around and finally hanging the dress over the back of the chair.  “Otherwise I’d be cleaning out the guest rooms with the rest of the maids.”

 “Well, grand Feast or not, it’s to be one day only.  I’m sure we can all pull together and endure.”

 “It will make a fine practice for you, my lady!” replied Finnie cheerily.

 “Practice?  For what exactly?”

 “For when you are wed, of course!”

 “Wed?” Shallan burst out.  “One day a time, please!”

 “Well, my lady,” mused Finnie, whilst undoing the buttons on Shallan’s day dress, “now that you have seen Anglekar, how would you go back to Scotland?  I hear it’s very dreary all the time there.”

 Shallan was silent as her day dress was replaced in favour of an evening one.  She spoke softly, with a hint of reproachfulness.  “It may be dreary, but it is my home.  And my homeland.”

 “Of course, my lady,” said Finnie, turning her eyes downward in deference.  “Beg your pardon.”

 They were silent as Shallan’s hair was dressed for dinner. 

 What was Loch Davar to her now?  It was no Grand House; it was not even a stately home, like Dun McValam or Ivory Lane.  There was an empty echoing manor with a leaking roof, which echoed all the more now that most of the furniture and half her family were gone from it.  What was a home?  Was it the house itself, or the people inside it, or the intangible memories of long ago happiness and comfort that one held in their heart?

 Shallan was unquestionably Scottish; of this she was undeniably convinced.  She was Scottish, and this was not something anyone – and definitely no soft southern Anglethi – could take away.  If she did not need the deed papers to an estate to be Scottish, for what reason did Loch Davar need to be saved? 

 She brushed that doubt away.  Of course Loch Davar needed to be saved.   If it could not be her place of residence, it was still her home – wasn’t it?  And it was her brothers’ legacy, the last thing they had for themselves after the sale of the silverware and the heirloom tartan brooches and the claymores from the mantelpiece.  She felt somewhat troubled at the thought that a successful attachment to Adolin would result in her spending his fortune on maintaining the Davar estate – the rents from the surrounding villages had been mortgaged too, and the manor currently could not support itself. 

 She did not know if Adolin would approve, even if he gave his willing consent.  She knew Kaladin would not.  He would see it as Shallan’s indulging her fantasy illusions of childhood as she did with ether, only this time it would be pulling Adolin into the depths with her, even though he could easily afford it.  And she, to her immense dissatisfaction, saw the sense in that – Kaladin was right.  As usual.  She had an emotional attachment to Loch Davar; she was blinded by her sentimentality – and for that she was willing to do what he would never consider sensible, nor she financially prudent.

 Shallan went down to dinner, still thinking.  Kaladin was merely middle class, no matter how well-educated he happened to be.  He worked for a living; that was what separated him from gentry who did not work – their living, their leisure, was supported by the rents and taxes raised from their hereditary estates.  It was also acceptable in these modern ages to derive one’s maintenance from the dividends of investments outside real properties – joint-stock ventures, or the Funds – if the original capital was inherited, of course.  He was not – and could never be – a true gentleman until he was gentry; Shallan doubted she would be able to find his name in _The Peerage_.  She was not even sure if _Kaladin_ was his Vorin name or his family name.

 Thus, he did not – could not, could never – comprehend the attachment one had to their family estate.  The house one’s family lived in was not just a roof over their heads – and Loch Davar, admittedly, did not have much that could be praised or even expected in a roof.  It was ancestral legacy; it was part of what made a lady or gentleman of quality – well, _quality_.  It possessed the quality of dignified age, and history, and some said it was ultimately bestowed by the Almighty’s favour for his chosen leaders of men.

  _You cannot eat an ancestral legacy_ , Shallan thought bitterly.  It sounded like something Kaladin would say.

 Well, that was why she had come to Anglekar, wasn’t it?

 Shallan was redirected by a footman to the Cobalt Room for dinner; there was still much activity in the foyer of the House as the lamps were lit for the evening.  The servants appeared to be taking the instructions of preparing for a grand Feast seriously, and Shallan felt the disquieting beginnings of niggling trepidation.  She had attended Clan McValam’s annual clan moot when she was thirteen years old for her clan pledges; she had observed the pledging of other children in the following years, though not so recently when she and her brothers had melted down their clan brooches and bonnet badges and had had nothing presentable to wear.  How much grander of scale could a City-style Anglethi Feast be?  Shallan had never been to the City before, or any city at all – only large towns for Middlefests as a girl.

 She was seated to Adolin’s left, with Kaladin on his right.  It was the dinner arrangement she had shared with them every other evening previous – only this time it was to be in a smaller room.  It was not an unattractive room, for all its informality, she thought, as she looked around.  True to its name, the Cobalt Room was decorated with cobalt blue – Kholin blue.  There were blue shields fixed to the wall, and wooden plaques with hooks holding up trophy swords.  Not all of them were the yard-length straight-bladed heirloom longswords common to the great families of the Anglethi Isles, nor the newer and thinner cavalry sabres.  Some of them were curved scimitars, with enamelled hilts in designs of tessellated sunbursts with matching scabbards; there were two with shagreen hilts, and flat blades with rectangular chisel-like points.  Many of the blades were nicked and scratched.

 “I’m glad to report,” said Adolin, as a footman placed a bowl of marrow-and-onion soup in front of him.  It was followed by a spoonful of sour cream and a sprinkling of thinly-shaved fried ham.  “That to-night’s menu was selected with a judicious eye.  And stomach.  I made sure to taste everything, just to be certain.”

 Kaladin grunted.  “The kitchens are busy preparing for the Feast; I’m surprised they would spare the time for you, Duke or no.”

 “And this is why we are dining informally to-night?” Shallan asked.

 “Yes,” Adolin replied.  “They’re hanging up the banners in the dining room.  We would not have been able to eat with the workmen overhead and underfoot.”

 “I’m sure you could manage to eat anywhere,” remarked Kaladin.

 Adolin waved his spoon.  “I’m sure I could.  But you’ve been in the military, Kal – my father’s military especially.  It doesn’t do to go slipshod on the protocol.”  A footman at the sideboard unloaded their second course – pigeon pie with a side of gratin carrots.  “It’s one thing,” he said, with what Shallan thought was a wistfulness to his generally good-humoured spirits, “to dine in the field, and another thing to be going field-fashion whilst immediately outside the mess hall.”

 “Adolin,” said Shallan slowly, puzzling it through.  “Forgive me if I am wrong – but you seem to regard the military life with fondness.”

 Adolin met her eyes, and smiled affectionately at her.  But when he spoke, he spoke in the tones of solemn contemplation.  “The duty of the sons of House Kholin is to bear arms for the King.  The military life is my life.”

 Perhaps if she had not known him as she did now, she would not have caught onto the nuance of melancholy in his voice.  If he had spoken those words upon her first introduction to him – the luncheon at the pavilion – she would have presumed that he was making conversation as any young gallant would have – with bravado and pride in pedigree, not with true feeling hidden behind idle mealtime chatter.

 How peculiar it must be, to see that even a Duke of the first rank might have the constraints of privilege placed around him – as she herself did.  Because as she repeated his words over in her mind, she could not help but think: _the duty of the Duchess is to bear those sons_.  But she did not articulate that particular thought; thoughts of self-pity sounded twice as disagreeable and thrice as pathetic when spoken aloud in the presence of others. 

 “And have they – _you_ – no choice in the matter?” she managed.

 Kaladin took a sip of his smallbeer.  “Miss Davar, were you aware that the Anglethi word for _‘Duke’_ comes from an ancient Continental word meaning _‘leader’_ or _‘general’?”_

 Adolin paused as a footman refreshed his plate.  “Father says our privilege is fair payment for our hereditary service.  It was originally an elevation by the Grace of the Almighty, and we should maintain the standards, as it were.  And we should seek leadership as part of our Calling.”

 “I doubt many others see rank that way.  I do not,” said Shallan, thinking of the men in her own family.  They were proud of their lineage – as all gentry were – and they were the accepted leaders in the local community.  But they were only leaders in the vague social fashion – the farming villages of the Loch had their own elders; the Davars were not – _definitely not_ – models of moral authority to which the lower classes should aspire.  As much as she had boasted of her own charitable disposition to Kaladin, she knew it to be contrived – and quite certainly not an entire truth.  It was curious that there was someone to be found in the upper echelons of Society – the Prince Kholinar himself – who believed in such things as the notion that Grace bestowed should equal Grace deserved.

 “And I thought you read _The Way of Kings_ , Miss Davar.  You seemed to profess an illogical confidence in the old stories,” said Kaladin, as the next remove of trout with buckwheat and long beans was brought in.

 “I have read it, but only for the historical details,” she replied, glaring at him over the central basket of sliced bread.  “I do not take every lesson on morality in every fable to heart.  If they were all true, and I internalised them all, I ought to have gone back to the tower in the forest and waited for Adolin to _hallo_ me from his white horse.  And then we would have been married the very next day.”

 Adolin flushed, and Shallan smiled at him as he set his fork down carefully.   “The lessons in _The Way of Kings_ are things that many others have forgotten, and Father seeks to uphold.  I myself believe that there is truth, or at least wishful idealism in the words.  But my father is very firm on them.  He says that the First Family of Anglekar should be – _must be_ – the first blood spilled for Anglekar.”

 Shallan remembered their night in the forest – Adolin’s confession in the aftermath of the attack.  He held his father in great – perhaps unhealthy – esteem; that was plain to see.  But she could also see that he did not look fondly upon the prospect of death.  There was no bloodlust in him; she could not recognise any shred of the wild-eyed and battle-frenzied berserker that was common to the clansmen of the north – that was to be found in her own father, and her brother Helaran.   There was conflict in Adolin, she felt.  Duty and loyalty were concepts that weighed heavily in his mind as they did in her own.

 “I — I had forgotten how very fatalistic Vorinism could be,” Shallan said softly.  “I rather attribute it to too much time spent in Jasnah’s company.”

 “It is when I recall that Heaven’s Halls involve an afterlife of fighting that I am grateful that I, according to you—” said Kaladin, glancing at Shallan, “—lack a soul.”

 “Well, Doctor, I would be happy to join you in Damnation if I might be spared an eternity of Heavenly bloodshed.”

 “Shallan,” said Adolin earnestly, “I do not think you would ever be condemned to Damnation.  And in this lifetime at least, you will be spared the prospect of bloodshed with Kal and myself around to guarantee it.”

 Shallan met his eyes; she gave his foot a friendly nudge under the table, and he smiled at her with fondness.  “I hope with all sincerity you shall not be held to your promise.  I hope you shall never need to be.”

 “All men live in hope,” said Kaladin dryly.

 After dinner, the gentlemen were for the retiring room for billiards and drinks; Shallan did not feel the inclination to join them.  She decided that she would rather a full night of sleep before Jasnah’s return.  Before the respite – if it could be called that – would be over and then she would be subject to the Countess’ instructions once more.  She refused Adolin’s invitation, and watched Kaladin stride off down the hall, nimbly dodging a footman balancing a set of curtain rods over his shoulder.  Adolin paused, then turned back to her.

 “I’m glad to see you better, Shallan,” he said, taking her hand.  “I feel absolutely beastly that since you have come here, you have had nothing but a run of bad luck.”

 “Perhaps I am the bad luck,” replied Shallan acidly.

 “No!  It is mere unfortunate chance.  It cannot be a curse – or something of that nature.”

 “You believe in curses?”

 “No – I try not to, at least.  But I believe that Grace, though rare, can still be found in the hearts of men.”

 “And women?”

 He grinned at her.  “And women too.  I see it in yours.”

 “If it could be found in me, I imagine I should be able to tell, shouldn’t I?”

 Adolin lowered his voice.  _“I_ can tell,” he whispered. 

 Emotion bloomed within her.   Kaladin may not be a gentleman, but Adolin surely was.  And not a mere gentleman by law, whose status was acknowledged through ownership of an estate of certain size and an annual income of a certain number.   No.  Adolin was a gentle man, and a kind one – a good man whose genuine feelings almost convinced her that there was more to be found in life than a constant teetering between extremes of complete despair and complete apathy. 

 She threw her arms around him, and rested her cheek against the comforting solidity of his chest; he returned her embrace, careful of her bandaged ribs.  The passing servants averted their eyes.  It almost beggared belief that out of all the young ladies in Anglekar and the Isles, that he would want her.  She, of all people.  Yes, she could not deny that Balat and Wikim wanted her – the creditors had more mercy when they had come to take things away from a young girl with tears in her eyes.  And Jushu needed her for _other_ purposes.  Jasnah had wanted her too – but she saw a useful tool in Shallan, someone with intelligence and a good memory, whose desperate need for an influential connection could inspire unwavering loyalty.   But what did Adolin want?  What did Adolin _deserve?_

 Shallan rose to her toes and spoke very softly to his ear.  “If only I could tell.”

 There, that was truth.  Two meanings – but both of them were indeed heartfelt truths.

 “Perhaps one day,” he replied.  “It will come in its own time.”

 Shallan went up to bed troubled with her own thoughts.  She _felt_ something, she was sure, for Adolin Kholin.  She had not felt things for a very long time, and never in her life had she felt something like this particular swelling emotion, whatever it was.  She could not even name it; its existence was so obscure and distant from her own very limited experience.  She had not known any men with familiarity other than her family – if one discounted menservants at the estate.  But of course she had not been familiar with them; she had not known much of them other than their names and their role in the household.  How much of this – emotion – was from the novelty of new experience, the novelty of finding herself acquainted with a handsome young man with the reputation of a flirt?

 She did not want to feel things, at all.  Everything was easier if one neutered the part of themselves that held the capacity to feel.  Life was easier to understand – to manage – when there were no sentimental thoughts to bar rational decision-making.  Shallan had thought she was well on her way to transcending such concerns, as Jasnah was.  But now she found she wasn’t – she was far from it – and she did not know what to make of herself. 

 She was not ashamed.  No.  That could not be it.

 It was fear, and it was doubt.  But she was not afraid of Adolin.

 She was afraid for herself. 

 If things were to collapse – like they always did – then there would be another scar on her poor, disfigured heart.  And what happened if a heart that bore all the marks that could be borne were to be marked once again? 

 She did not want to know.

 

***

 

 The curtains around the bed were drawn open at ten in the morning, but Shallan was not asleep.  She was staring at the folds of velvet at the top of the canopy, still thinking about the previous evening’s dinner.  It was the possibility that Adolin was unhappy with his lot in life.  It seemed passing strange that a Duke could feel dissatisfaction in that manner, even after his confession in the forest, which she had mostly discounted as the sentiments of a person who had never been – _hardened_ – in childhood, as she had been.

 He was so outwardly pleasant, so amiable in disposition, that she hardly would have guessed.  A thought occurred.  It was a very disarming thought.  It was entirely possible that Adolin just might have a shell firmly fixed in place as she did, with the face of the coin that was the sociable Shallan.  Kaladin himself had more than one face; Shallan had observed the proof of its existence before.  She could not forget that the hands that changed her bandages with utmost gentleness were the same hands that had bloodied a bayonet with no visible misgivings.  It was therefore not unthinkable that Adolin had his own social face.

 Shallan stepped into the steaming bath and slid backward until the water closed over her head.  When she returned to her bedchamber, Finnie was nervously shuffling her feet in the hallway.   

 “Doctor Kaladin is waiting to change your bandages, my lady,” she explained apologetically.  “He told me he would wait for you inside, instead of the hall.”

 “Doctor Kaladin alone in a lady’s boudoir,” said Shallan loudly, opening the door to the bedchamber.  “I should wonder what mischief I might find him up to.”  She stepped inside and closed the door.

 Kaladin looked up at the sound of her voice.  He was sitting at the chair in front of her vanity, inspecting the unrolled set of hairbrushes and combs on the table.  They were the silver set that Finnie had used every day, the ones with the enamelled forget-me-nots and silver curlicues.

 “These are quality work,” noted Kaladin, as he picked up his medical bag from the floor. “I’m sure a silversmith’s apprentice somewhere was promoted to journeyman for his efforts.”

 “They’re not mine.”  Shallan shrugged off her dressing gown and tossed it at him; he caught it neatly out of the air and dropped it onto the trunk at the foot of the bed.   “But you’re welcome to use them.  I should think that you’d have more need of them than I.”  She unbuttoned her shift and lay on the bed.

 “Adolin gave them to you for a reason – I’m sure he saw your own need was more desperate than mine.”  Kaladin untied the bandages; Shallan closed her eyes as she saw the ether bottle being brought out of the bag.

 “Adolin didn’t give them to me.  My maid had them from somewhere.  Perhaps they were left behind from a previous lady guest who was in such a hurry she forgot to pack.”

 “Do I sense jealousy in you?” said Kaladin with sardonic amusement.   “Or if it happens to be small-mindedness – well either way, it does not become you, Miss Davar.”

 Shallan groaned as the ether was swabbed to the wound.  It hurt less every day, but it still hurt; she was glad that it was followed by a cooling herbal ointment that was smeared over the stitches.   “It’s not jealousy.  If Adolin just gave me things, wouldn’t he be concerned that I’d have them pawned, and go home immediately without marrying him?”

 “Miss Davar, if you want to go home, you are welcome to leave at any time.  Adolin would not begrudge you the family silver.”

 “Well, I won’t,” Shallan grumbled.  She heard the crunch of horses and carriage wheels from the drive outside the window.  So Jasnah was back now – and with her, a return to planned order and sane rationality.  “Why would one take the golden eggs if one could have the golden goose?” she said sourly.

 Kaladin’s hands paused in re-tying her fresh bandage.   His voice was low, but brittle.  “Do you still only see him as your golden goose?”

 “It would be easier for everyone if he was,” Shallan sighed, swiping the back of her hand over her eyes.  “Geese don’t have feelings.  And if they did, no-one cares.”

 “It is truly a shame that Adolin is no goose then.”   She heard the click of the clasp as he shut his kit bag.

 “Geese could not kiss as well as he does,” Shallan said, with false nonchalance.  “They have bills instead of lips.”

 She heard the tread of Kaladin’s feet as he walked to the door.  “Miss Davar, have you ever considered the possibility that _you_ are the goose?” 

 The door opened and then closed.  Shallan rolled over on the bed, and shut her eyes; she buried her face in the pillows.

 Finnie came in later to prepare her for luncheon in the Teal Room; she chattered animatedly about the uproar when Jasnah’s carriage had opened to the portico of Kholinar Court.  Jasnah had announced that the guests – invited from the Palace, the townhouses and salons of the City, and the stately homes of Kholinshire – would be arriving by luncheon time to-morrow.  Jasnah had brought with her several carts of wines and delicacies from the merchants of the City, followed by servants’ wagons from the Kholinshire Park estate. 

 There was to be entertainment, and tables full of food for the guests whose carriages could not be predicted to arrive at any one time, and a grand ball and a grander dinner with endless toasts.  The King himself, the Prince Kholinar, the Queen Dowager, and the Marquess Kholinshire were to appear, along with sundry lords and barons and Most Honourable nameless esquires.  But not, the maid was pleased to repeat, the Queen, who was left to manage affairs in the City.

It was a bewildering array of names and titles; Shallan was dismayed to find that her own maid was more familiar with them than she was.  She, like most other young Scottish ladies of quality, knew the names of the Anglethi first rank – the royal Family, and the Dukes, and the Dukes’ sons.  They were printed in the front section of every edition of _The Peerage_ , along with their glyph arms.  She had known of Adolin and his brother by their family tree in the book; the rest of the names were completely unknown, or known only hazily by a passing mention of their family name or family connections.

 Shallan walked to the Teal Room trying to remember the lists of names she had read years ago in the book.  She could not remember the colours of their standards; she could not remember the names of the younger sons.  She recalled that the copy she had had was an older edition – it would not be as up-to-date, nor have the quality of engravings that the newer versions would have.  How she regretted not paying much attention to the book – Madame Tyn had chastised her for it; at the time she had held more interest in agricultural manuals borrowed from the estate steward.

 After all, she had always expected her father would have her married off to a kinsman of The McValam.  She had hardly imagined she would find herself enjoying the cream of Kholinar society in the company of one of the ten Dukes of Anglekar. 

 Jasnah lowered her newssheet as Shallan was seated opposite her at the Teal Room’s round dining table.  Jasnah looked her up and down, inspecting her appearance; apparently she could not detect any obtrusive element or obvious flaw worthy of a verbal criticism, for she waved a footman forward to begin serving their luncheon.

 “Well, Shallan – the tasks,” said Jasnah with the smoothness of natural authority.  It was not quite a demand: Jasnah was too well-bred for that.  The things she wanted you found yourself offering her of your own volition.  “What have you been up to?”

 “I found the temple in the woods from the maps I got from the church,” Shallan said.  “There were murals on the inside that I copied.  Our expeditionary party was attacked by – the _organisation_ – before I could make further study.  I had the groundskeeper make directional notations on my copy of the map.”

 “Good.  We will have to study the images you’ve reproduced, and possibly plan another excursion.  And the – _other_ task?”

 “I presume you mean Adolin.”  Shallan did not look up from her rissole with poached pear and walnut salad.   She really did not feel kindly disposed to the prospect of discussing her and Adolin’s mutual – understanding – at the dining table.  It felt too _personal_.  She wanted to keep those warm and special moments they had shared on the inside, to be replayed in Memory at her own leisure, not shared at table for Jasnah’s amusement or dissection.  Was that wrong of her?  For Jasnah was, for all intents, her patroness; she owed Jasnah a debt of loyalty for the good turn she had done for a nameless scholar girl who had begged for an audience.

 “What else?” said Jasnah with wry humour glinting in her hard eyes.  “How far along are you?  Though I hope you haven’t gotten _there_ quite yet – not before a formal announcement of engagement, at least!”

 Shallan did not laugh at her joke.  That subject was rather – uncomfortable for her.  At least, she thought, she didn’t make sick all over the table this time.  “I am certain he is more eager for an attachment than an acquaintanceship,” said Shallan carefully.  “More eager than I am, if I might be bold enough to say.”  She paused, suddenly aware of the significance of what had just been said.  “I haven’t any idea of what else to do, Jasnah.  Oh, if only you could adopt me.”

 Jasnah swirled her claret; she shot a discerning glance at Shallan.  “The law requires a marriage before an adoption,” she said crisply.

 “And I, unfortunately, am not worth that risk.”

 “No, unfortunately not.”  Well, Jasnah rarely did step around uncomfortable truths.  It had been too much to hope for, in any case.  “My maintenance is drawn from the interests of my royal father’s willed endowments.  The capital cannot be touched; it may only be passed to Family.”

 “I must become Family, then,” said Shallan, pushing a small fragment of walnut meat around her plate.

 “Yes,” Jasnah answered.  She set her glass down.  “However, if you manage a girl for your firstborn, my solicitors can arrange an annulment for you.  I would name her my heir, and you would become her legal guardian.  The entailment of my own peerage does not require a male heir.  My late father ensured a legacy for me – the least I could do is ensure something for you.  Conditionally.”

 “And if it’s a boy?”

 “You had best hope he is sickly.”  That was purely Jasnah, once again.  It would have been directness to the point of being appalling in any other person.  But in Jasnah, one could not contemplate the possibility of her behaving in any other fashion. 

 “Doesn’t—” Shallan paused, knowing that the words she said would reveal too much of what Jasnah was desperately curious to know – though, of course she would never outwardly give the impression of eagerness.   She said them anyway.  “Doesn’t Adolin have any say in this?”

 “I’m sure you can convince my young cousin it was his own idea, if you had a mind to do it.”

 “Perhaps I could – if I had the inclination to do so.”  She didn’t really, truthfully.

 The thought of manipulating Adolin – the thought of taking away his child – _their child_ – and annulling a marriage for her own reasons, or Jasnah’s, was unspeakably, shockingly selfish.  A month ago, on the _Wind’s Pleasure_ , Shallan would not have given the idea a second thought: she would have been happy to continue her studies with Jasnah without the distractions posed by men or fashionable Society.  No: she would only do it in the event that any future husband of hers was an unworthy father. 

 Jasnah’s gaze was wary now.  “You – truly return his affections?”

 “Is that so hard to believe?”

 Jasnah sighed.  “You are young, I suppose.”  There was a subtle implication in the Countess’s voice that she had never been young herself, and obliged the youthful whimsies of others out of her own patient benevolence – and never from personal empathy.  “You will learn – _we all do_.  I prize intelligence in youth, but sometimes,” she paused, glancing meaningfully at Shallan, “sometimes I forget that youth often lacks the wisdom of experience.”

 “What wisdom do you have, since you are so experienced?” asked Shallan, keeping her own voice controlled.

 “It will be easier for you – for everyone – if you detach your agenda from your emotions,” said Jasnah.  “Be rational.  A sound mind will keep your heart sound.”

  _But my heart isn’t sound.  It never was._

 “Thank you for the advice.  I will do what I can.”  It wasn’t a promise, but neither was it a lie.

 Jasnah seemed to accept it.  She inclined her head graciously, and patted her red-painted lips with her napkin.  The napkin had no red smudges; her lip-paint hadn’t budged or smeared.  “Please do,” she said coolly.  “And remember – your choices do not reflect only on you.”

 Jasnah had a full-length looking glass brought into the Teal Room after luncheon, and also several trunks that bore a _J.K._ monogram carved into the lids.  She summoned Shallan’s maid with Shallan’s hairbrushes and her sketchbook and notes.

 Shallan was stripped to her underdress and evening gowns were brought out of the trunks one by one, festooned with long banners of white tissue paper.  Jasnah sat at the dining table reading over Shallan’s notes with a critical eye and a red wax pencil; Shallan could see her flip past sketches she had made of various residents of the House and blushed at the intrusion of her privacy.  Her sketchbook held thoughts and memories that she did not want to keep in her head; she found catharsis in her habit of incising thoughts into charcoal and lead-clay at the end of each day. 

 There was that rather embarrassing one she had drawn after she had been introduced to Adolin for the first time – when he had kissed her hand and winked and she had felt her first pang of – something – at being in his presence.  The one with the hearts.  She swore that Jasnah’s eyebrow twitched upward at that page.

 Shallan glared at her reflection in the looking glass as Finnie buttoned up her dress.  None of them fit perfectly, like her own dresses.  But they were well made, with fabrics that had the heft and weight of expensive silk when she ran her hands over them.  It was a shame that they fit like they had been made for a girl of more generous proportion than her – the front was woefully unfilled when the back buttons had been done up.  The sleeves were slightly too long.  The hems would be more appropriate for someone taller.

 “I asked the modist for the smallest finished gowns in stock,” remarked Jasnah, looking up.  “I went to several, actually.  But your measurements are rather on the slender size, and I hadn’t the time to have something made bespoke.  Your maid will have to take them in for you.  I’ve had her excused from her other duties.  If the presentation goes well, we will see about your hiring a dedicated lady’s maid.”

 “I like the maid I have now,” said Shallan firmly, holding up the hem of the dress so she wouldn’t trip.  Finnie flashed her a grateful smile in the looking glass.

 “Very well – if you manage to acquit yourself favourably to-morrow with no lady’s maid of your own, then having one is not a necessity, at least for now,” conceded Jasnah.  She hesitated, then asked: “Have you noticed if my cousin has expressed … partiality toward any physical feature you possess?”

 Shallan flushed.  “Perhaps I should ask him next we meet.”

  _“Shallan.”_

 “He has not given any indication of his dissatisfaction with my lack of … physical features,” said Shallan.  Adolin had not cared about the wound, or that it was to leave a scar.  He did not dislike her lack of Anglethi proportions.  But she did not tell this to Jasnah.  “Adolin thinks my hair is nice.”

 “Put away the violet dress, then – and the pink one,” ordered Jasnah.  There was now a trunk for rejected dresses that were too large to be re-sized in a day, or in an unflattering cut, and now the wrong colour.  “Perhaps the pale blue one.  We want to give the impression of a connection, without being so overt as to be distastefully presumptuous.”

 Shallan stood patiently in front of the looking glass as Finnie pinned up the blue dress.  “Are we to dine with the gentlemen this evening?”

 Jasnah laughed.  “You must finish trying on the dresses.  It should take some time to achieve a proper fit, if you do not look forward to being hastily sewn into it to-morrow morning – I daresay some of the girls my mother is pushing will be doing just that.  After the dresses, there are still shoes, and gloves, and reticules, and headpieces, and cosmetics to look into.”

 “Does that mean no?” Shallan groaned.

 “Yes.”

 “If Adolin likes me, and has seen me without all _this_ , what is the purpose of it all, then?” Shallan griped.

 “My cousin is considerate enough that the Family’s approval matters in his choice of wife.   You should be grateful for this – without it, I doubt he would have suffered my introducing you,” Jasnah said, with careless gesture of her hand.  “If you can convince him to elope by luncheon to-morrow, then all of _this_ would be unnecessary.”

 As Shallan was dressed and undressed with the tedious variety of extravagance, she thought that an elopement would make things much simpler.  Usually, elopement in young couples was done for a certain disreputable _reason_ – and Adolin knew that they had not done any such a thing to justify _that_.  Not that either of them were dismayed – nor disinterested – in the prospect of such things occurring, or uneager to see what all the fuss was about – one day in the future.  Possibly.  Well, at least she thought that of herself; she had only the slightest idea of what Adolin made of the whole notion, and he would very likely not be keen on sharing his thoughts on _that_ with her.  If he could; she doubted he could spit out more than a few words on that particular subject without blushing red and running out of the room in acute mortification.

 The fact remained that she could not recommend an elopement on _that_ point, at least.  It would have been made all the more disreputable by the knowledge that she had only been introduced to him a week before.  There was, however, another way to force an elopement, but it only worked on true gentlemen.  Not just the men who did not dare risk disinheritance when news of their producing a natural-born child got out. 

 The way to snare a true gentleman – here Shallan’s expertise came from readings and re-readings of various novels – was to arrange a situation where he found a woman – _her_ – in a truly undignified positon, and was therefore socially obligated to make good the ruin of her honour.  This could be something like wandering into a lady’s bathing chamber whilst she was disrobed, with a maid or two as witness to her honour’s undoing.  She and Kaladin had joked about it – but it _was_ a tradition in the Scottish countryside for promised couples who wanted to rush their banns.   And, she supposed, it would not be beyond a gentleman of the strictest of moral standards.  Adolin had read _The Way of Kings_ ; he agreed with what that old book had said – could he be anything but?

 But the Feast was to-morrow, and she was not seeing Adolin again to-night.  It seemed more likely that she would have to bear whatever to-morrow brought rather than find a way for induce an indignity for herself within the next twelve or so hours. 

 Shallan resigned herself to her fate as Jasnah powdered her face, and frowned when a small hand glass was brought forth and she saw herself looking wan and sickly without freckles to colour her cheeks.  Jasnah sent for washcloths, and tried once more, muttering all the while how there was no colour match to be had for Shallan’s skin. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More character development. I wanted to contrast Jasnah's character to Shallan's. Remember how Shallan in the beginning was high-handed just like Jasnah, and didn't argue with her so blatantly, because they believed pretty much the same things? Shallan now has gotten off the high horse and now has developed a bit of a conscience. She feels bad at the thought of manipulating Adolin, and is kind of disturbed that Jasnah has no problem with it - and he is her own cousin.  
> I wanted to draw some parallels, to show that Jasnah is what Shallan aspired to be in Chapter 1. Past Shallan admired Jasnah's strength and resolve, and current Shallan is disturbed that Jasnah has achieved this by becoming the coldest and frostiest ice queen on the planet. 
> 
> "The Peerage" - Based on "Burke's Peerage", first published in 1826. A geneology of British gentry. Obviously I made up a parody version.  
> "their living, their leisure, was supported by the rents and taxes" - historically accurate definition of what it meant to be upper class. Mr Darcy's estate raised £10 000 a year. Emma Woodhouse had a fortune of £30 000. Mr Rochester had a £20 000 fortune. Jane Eyre's salary as a governess was £30 a year, and a butler got around £80. For the purposes of this story, Kholinar Court brings in £60 000 a year.  
> "Kaladin was his Vorin name or his family name." - Kaladin has no official last name other than Stormblessed. Vorin names are Christian names in our world.  
> "Duke" comes from Latin "Dux".  
> "Heaven’s Halls involve an afterlife of fighting" - reference to Kaladin's conversation with Renarin in WoR when he wanted to join Bridge Four.  
> "All men live in hope" - reference to Richard III. "But shall I live in hope?/All men I hope live so". The unrequited feelings hurt the most.  
> “You had best hope he is sickly.” - Jasnah is referencing Renarin. Stone cold. If a marriage could be annulled for barrenness (according to Brother Kadash), Jasnah's lawyers can get one granted if the firstborn isn't a healthy son like everyone wants. If you think Jasnah sounds heartless here, you must remember that she's saying all this because she thinks that marriage sucks and Shallan would be willing to get out of one in any way possible. Jasnah thinks she's helping. She just doesn't have a lot of empathy and says things without making them sound pretty.
> 
> The end is in sight, by the way. Shallan's character development is a marker of her emotional maturity, and her starting to deal with her own problems. Once she has gotten over her issues, there's else to write to about.


	14. XIV

_I shan’t try to contrive an indignity for myself on purpose_ , thought Shallan the next morning, as she was seated at Jasnah’s vanity being done up for her presentation.  _But Heaven knows if I should manage to find myself undignified in public quite accidentally._

 “If you are to be rude to the guests,” Jasnah said, scraping a small bristle brush on what looked like a cake of black soap in a tin, “remember to be clever enough about it so they cannot tell.  Your position is currently lacking in the resources that allow deliberate abrasiveness without consequence.”

 Shallan sat still as Finnie heated a teaspoon over a candle and used it to curl her eyelashes.  “I had rather expected you to forbid impudence altogether.”

 “Some of these guests are so disagreeable in their character that rudeness will be inevitable.  Now, look up,” ordered Jasnah.  She brushed Shallan’s eyelashes, which felt the slightest bit heavier.  “Duke Sebarial, for instance.  And Roion.  Anything they say can be safely ignored.”

 “Is there anyone who should be paid particular attention?”

 “Other than my cousin?  My mother, most likely.  She has her own agenda and will undoubtedly be pleased – smug, I should say – if she finds a match for Adolin when he couldn’t manage it himself after five years.  Not for any want of trying.”  Jasnah gripped Shallan’s chin firmly and turned it from side to side.  “Close your eyes.”

 “Your recommendation is that I should look pretty and remain silent for the whole day, then,” Shallan mumbled, as she felt something scratching along her eyelids.

 “I should do so if there were any possibility at all of compliance.”  Jasnah pursed her lips and put aside her brush.  “You may stand now.”

 Shallan stood to face the looking glass.  “Are you finished, then?” 

 She wore the blue dress from the afternoon before, which had been altered to fit her proportions.  The dress had been aggressively cut down to her size; there had been much contention between Finnie and the maids downstairs as to how much seam allowance was necessary – Finnie had pinned the form for a looser bodice to accommodate Shallan’s bandages.  The other maids preferred a more modish and closely fitted underbust; Jasnah and the housekeeper were consulted for the final fitting and had thankfully compromised on a silhouette that was fashionable but did not fully constrain necessary activities such as breathing, eating, and paying calls to the water closet.

 It was still a tight fit, though; Shallan had been laced in rather briskly for the buttons to close in the back, and she could feel her stitches twinge against the interior boning of her bodice.  Finnie tied a darker blue sash around her waist to hide the rough darting where the extra fabric around the bust had been taken in. 

 Jasnah inspected Shallan’s reflection in the looking glass.  “I was right, then.  You cannot be considered well-endowed by anyone’s measure, but it would indeed be a shame not to show that slender waist to full advantage.”

 That was a compliment from Jasnah, which was rare enough that it hardly mattered that the honey had been laced with vinegar.  Shallan stared at her own reflection.  She still looked like herself; Jasnah had given up the face powder when nothing could be found to match her pale complexion – but her features had been somehow _enhanced._ Shallan had never thought herself a Society beauty, and even now she struggled to call herself beautiful.  But this was not beauty, Shallan supposed:  these were her everyday features with a subtle emphasis on this or that trait.  It could not be called deception – it was merely good, nay, _clever_ grooming.

 It fit.  Shallan wore the face of pleasant, light-hearted girl who made amusing observations and was well-liked, or at least comfortably tolerated, by the Loch community.  It was only appropriate that she should finally be able to present herself as _that_ Lady Shallan in appearance, and not just act.  If she was really no true gem at heart, she could at least give the impression of glitter.  After all, brass could shine in the right light, and lead-glass could not be told from real diamond unless one knew exactly what to look for.  Madame Tyn had told her once: by the time you found out your paste gem was not a diamond, it was often too late to do anything about it.

 “One last thing.”  Jasnah interrupted Shallan’s thoughts.  “Here – this is for you.”

 Jasnah held up a small pasteboard booklet with a blue tassel tied through a punched hole in the corner; she waved Shallan over, and plucked at her sash.  The book was tucked into the sash; the tip of the tassel peeked out.

 “What is it?” asked Shallan, adjusting her sash to lay more comfortably around her waist.

 “Your dance card.  Don’t lose it,” she replied.  She sighed at Shallan’s blank look.  “The gentlemen sign your card when they want to reserve a dance with you.  The idea is that you will call on them afterward if you find their company … adequate.”

 “Could they not just introduce themselves by name?”

 “Seeing the names of other suitors is thought to encourage friendly competition.”

 “I shall trust you on that,” said Shallan, who had never had any suitor at all before Adolin.  She wouldn’t know what to do with two – or more than two of them at any one time.  It was amusing to entertain the idea of entertaining multiple gentlemen, as the plucky heroines of ladies’ novels did – but Shallan found that there was something disagreeable about encouraging young gallants like an auctioneer at a stock fair.   It placed a disturbing association on the gentlemen suitors, and an even more unsettling implication on the target of their affections, the lady whose favour could be described, very unflatteringly, as _negotiable_.

 It was unflattering for Shallan to realise that although she did not like to see herself that way, and she had only her one suitor, she was barely any different from every other lady whose search for romance was, in its original and most basic intention, never romantic at all.  She could console herself with the knowledge that she liked Adolin, and Adolin – as far as she knew – liked her; as if that excused her intentions toward him, and soothed away any objections toward her – and Jasnah’s – objectives for securing the match. 

 But that did not make her any different, or better, than any other Society lady.  Silent thoughts of benevolent consideration would not excuse, or justify, deplorable intentions – they merely made the label of _hypocrite_ an appropriate identification.  For all that she had shaped her social identity by the rather trite phrase _‘_ _not like the other girls’_ , she in sincerity was indistinguishable from them.  And Adolin hadn’t even noticed.

 Adolin thought her better than the other girls – he saw Grace in her, and not just the Grace that all petty gentry and minor nobility could claim to have by virtue of their rank.  No, he meant the true Grace from _The Way of Kings_ , which must be earned by one’s worthiness, and one’s strength of character and resolve.  Shallan could not see herself as one in possession of genuine worth, just as she could not see beauty in herself.  She could only imitate its appearance, and that, until now, had been good enough.

 “Come now, are you ready?” Jasnah inquired, patting at her own hair and adjusting the angle of her ivory sticks.  “We must go down.”

 Jasnah led the way downstairs, and Shallan followed with the observation of proper precedence.  The halls had been cleaned; fresh coats beeswax and vinegar polish on the walls gleamed with rich warmth in the lamplight, and festive blue ribbon wrapped around the banister above the main staircase.  The foyer had hung from the ceiling long blue banners twenty feet or more in height; the Duke’s arms in white were stitched on: the crenelated tower over the five-pointed crown.

 Adolin and Kaladin were already waiting by the base of the staircase; they must have heard the click of their heeled slippers on the stairs, for they turned around and made an elegant leg – Adolin’s was deeper and more respectfully formal – even hindered by a scabbarded side-sword – than Kaladin’s, who looked as if bowing to a social superior physically pained him.  She noticed that Kaladin and Adolin hadn’t been wearing formal day suits, nor their dining suits – they both had on military uniform.   The uniform, as Shallan observed, was a knee-length frock coat in Kholin blue, with white braiding on the cuffs and epaulets, with a cobalt blue neckcloth, silver-buttoned waistcoat of a lighter blue, and neatly pressed breeches tucked into riding boots. 

 Adolin straightened, and turned to Shallan, gazing wide-eyed at her face, and then her dress, and back again – but Jasnah swept past him and spoke.

 “The first guests are arriving.  We are to host together, cousin – come, we must greet them by the door,” she said, holding her elbow out to Adolin.  Adolin took it, and shot an apologetic glance at Shallan, before he was dragged away to the front door by Jasnah’s smooth but implacable gliding pace. 

 “Are you to be my chaperon now, as Jasnah’s attention has been diverted?” asked Shallan, inclining her head toward Kaladin.  She did not curtsey. 

 Kaladin’s uniform bore white patches high on each arm, by the shoulder – one was shield-shaped, with the Duke’s arms of tower and crown; the other was oval, with the crossed keys of the Herald Vedeledev, a common sigil used to represent medical institutions.  Shallan recognised it – she had seen it in Kharbranth, wrought in iron on the gates of Kharbranth’s famous hospital.  In Kharbranth, they had referred to the Herald by the name _Vedel_ , and many swore oaths to her, for protection and healing small wounds – when calling on the Almighty in His aspect of the Loving Father could have been seen as blasphemously trivial.

 Kaladin, she decided, was not so scruffy looking in military uniform as he was in his plain day suit – the uniform fit him better than his day clothes, or his dining whites; he looked more comfortable wearing them.  Adolin, in comparison, looked very good no matter what clothes he wore – all his clothes were likely made for him by a master tailor.   And this was followed by one very saucy thought – Adolin likely looked as good without his clothes as he did in them.  She almost blushed.

 Kaladin’s eyes swept over her, taking in her new gown and dressed hair.   She glared back at him, eyeing him without bothering to conceal her bad-mannered scrutiny – there was a reason folding fans existed, and it was for exactly this purpose.  There was something about Doctor Kaladin that encouraged her to dispense with affected propriety – perhaps it was because he himself did not seem to care about the laboriously learned rules of social discourse; Shallan had more than once found herself handicapped when she conversed with him whilst still attempting to obey the guidelines of decorum.

 “Are you finished leering openly, Doctor?” said Shallan, when he had not said anything after several long seconds.

 “Am I leering, then?” he replied, eyes narrowing.  She could not discern whether he was amused or not; she could not remember an instance where he had ever smiled, and she could not interpret the movements of his eyebrows when she held no particular fondness in looking at them at all.

 “Is that an apology?”

 “An apology implies an error.  Have I erred, Miss Davar?” Kaladin replied, with snide amusement.  “I am sure I would know it if I were to be mistaken in something.”

 “There is a first time for everything,” Shallan snapped back.  She adjusted her expression and smiled serenely, and took a step toward him.  His head turned to track her movements.  “I seem to recall your saying that you would leer openly if there were anything worth leering at.”

 “Perhaps,” he returned, one eyebrow rising and disappearing under the fringe of his hair, “there is a first time for everything.”

 “Still no apology?”

 “I do not believe myself to be mistaken.”

 “I shall take it as a compliment, then,” said Shallan, a genuine smile spreading across her face.  “It could not possibly mean anything else.”

 “Take it as you will, Miss Davar.  Once you have touched it, I doubt anyone would have it back.” 

 “Fortunately, we happen to have a doctor in attendance.  A doctor who, I presume, is not frightened of anything, not even bog frogs or bog monsters.”  Shallan reached a gloved hand to him, fingers clawed in mock menace, and he did not flinch away.  Well, she hadn’t expected him to.

 Kaladin sighed and gazed upward at the blue banners on the walls.  He offered her his arm.  “I suppose I _am_ the chaperon to-day.”

 Shallan laughed and took his arm with her gloved hand.  “Who else would I trust to preserve my modesty and dignity?  I’m sure you are so well-acquainted with it that you should be the first to know if it has been mysteriously snatched away.”

 “How would my own dignity survive if I were to waste my time hunting for yours, Miss Davar?”

 “Oh,” said Shallan airily, “many people go about without their dignity and they seem perfectly fine to me.  At least you would still have your modesty – you would only have a problem if they were both to disappear at the very same time.”

 She and Kaladin walked hand in arm to the front door, which was opened by a pair of footmen in pristine ducal livery – coat and knee breeches in Kholin blue, white stockings, and beautifully polished shoes with silver buckles.  Their gloves were white and spotless.  They passed over the threshold, and into the portico; the columns had been wrapped round with streamers of blue and silver. 

 The gravelled front drive was occupied by a row of a carriages, one after the other up to the iron gate where it met the main road.  Shallan knew that one carriage didn’t just mean one or two guests – each carriage would have its retinue, the accompanying maids and valets one brought when one had need of more than a single change of clothes.  The servants would be arriving in wagons by the trades entrance at the back of the House. 

 The front lawns of Kholinar Court were spotted with white open-sided tents; long triangular pennants fluttered gaily from their central tent poles like the mythical sky eels of children’s tales.  The largest tent contained a rectangular table with a morning tea service and tiered trays of pastries laid out for the earliest guests: it wasn’t quite yet luncheon time.  Shallan saw the samovar from her first luncheon as the centrepiece display.  It was surrounded by stacks of porcelain saucers and upside-down teacups, and older gentlemen with serious beards and round bellies.

 They saw guests wandering about in swallow-tailed morning coats or day dresses; some were wearing the garments of country gentry in their riding coats and tall boots – polished to a shine by a manservant, of course – or straw bonnets with silk ribbons and kidskin walking boots on the ladies.   No-one greeted her or Kaladin by name, and no-one bowed to them; she could see that very few of the gentlemen guests wore military uniform – there were some, here and again, in the blue of the Kholin Regiments, but there were no uniforms representing any other Duke.

 Shallan and Kaladin ambled past the carriages being unloaded of their passengers; she was disappointed that everything seemed rather dull.  The House and grounds were beautifully decorated: the staff had outdone themselves on that count – but no-one spoke to them, and they did not speak to anyone, and it seemed likely she would be sharing Kaladin’s company for the entirety of the day.  It was not as tiresome as it could have been, now that they were somewhat acquainted with one another, but Shallan was right now walking out with a gentleman – and she would have much preferred it to be Adolin instead. 

 She tried for conversation.  “The guests are here early, then?”

 Kaladin opened his mouth, but then something caught his attention.  He tore his arm out of her grip, and shoved her behind him with surprising forcefulness; he reached into his frock coat and drew out a pistol, which he cocked and aimed at the bushes by the path. 

 Shallan peeked around Kaladin’s rather broad back.  The bushes rustled, and a head popped out.  It was a head with black hair and a narrow face with angular, almost severe features of indeterminate age – a man with blue eyes and a black coat. 

 Kaladin grunted, and put away his gun from wherever he had secreted it.  “It’s Wit.”

 The bushes rustled some more, and the man stepped out of them, revealing a lean body that towered over Shallan.  He could easily look Kaladin in the eye; he was not, however, quite as tall as the Doctor.  There was a sword in a scabbard belted to his waist, but he did not reach for it; Shallan thought that it was sensible of him – a swordsman could not put up much resistance against lead shot at point-blank range.

 The man threw his arms in the air and announced dramatically, “Wit is never early, nor is he late!  Timeliness is the essence of Wit!”  His voice had the resonance of a trained orator and the energy of a player; it was boisterous and friendly and teasing all at once, and Shallan could not feel afraid or intimidated by his presence.  In fact, she had the vague impression that she had once met him, or seen him before, and that previous meeting had not inspired any fear of the man either.

 “Who is Wit?” asked Shallan, stepping out from behind Kaladin, who looked more relaxed now that he had deemed this new creature not to be a threat.

 “I am – the road untaken, the path unchosen, the words unspoken!” said the man smoothly, circling around them.  Shallan could not tell if he had rehearsed his lines.  “I am – the King’s Wit, his _compère royale_ , his high prince of humour!”

 Kaladin crossed his arms.  “He’s just an egotistical juggler.”

 Shallan whirled around to keep Wit in view.  She stopped – he was directly behind her; she tilted her head back and back, and looked up to meet his eyes.  He winked.  “How curious,” said Shallan slowly.  “I think I saw him at the Punch and Judy show at Middlefest a few years ago.”

 “One must travel to find new stories to tell,” said Wit, brushing a leaf off his shoulder.  “And I say I am the most travelled of troubadours!”

 “You see what I mean?”  Kaladin rolled his eyes.  “His official duty is to insult people because the King thinks it’s funny.”

 Wit chuckled.  “I am a troubadour because I love to travel.  I sense the troubadour in you as well!”

 “I’m no troubadour,” answered Kaladin.

 “Only because you have not found your love.”

 “I am not looking for it – and I can hardly see myself travelling on the whim of a – a spoony bard.”

 Wit grinned suddenly.  “The whims of Wit often turn out to be wisdom.”

 “Wit isn’t even your real name.”

 “One of them, but I’ve too many to count,” said the pale man, looking at Shallan now.  He returned his gaze to Kaladin and grinned at him mischievously.  “You may call me _‘_ _Beloved’_ , until you have someone else to bear that name.  I could never be mistaken for anyone else.”

 “It would be a grave insult to anyone else if you were,” said Kaladin. 

 “Then anyone else should die happy!” retorted Wit gleefully, and then his head jerked around as a carriage in green and white livery rattled past.   “You must excuse me for now – a tingling sensation warns me that there are people desperately in need of good cheer!”

 Kaladin stepped aside as Wit bounded past, black coat-tails flapping. 

 “What a strange man,” Shallan said, as they watched the man leap onto the footman’s rest on the back of the carriage; he tapped several times on the roof, and there was an answering knock from the inside.   “I wonder what he meant by that.  Why would anyone call him Beloved?  Why would _you_ want to?”

 Kaladin blew out his breath, obviously exasperated by the unexpected meeting with the King’s Wit.  “I wouldn’t want to.  Don’t pay any attention to him – you might find him to be more tiresome or convoluted than humorous.  The King finds him funny – but then again, he has never been known for his good taste.”

 They continued walking the path that curved along the side of the House, until they found themselves nearing the glass hothouses of the North Courtyard.  It was quiet here: this was not the busy front of the House, nor the even busier back, where the grocers’ and luggage carts were being unloaded for the comfort of the very important guests.

 “Is there a library in this House?” Shallan asked suddenly.

 “Houses like this always have a library.  Why do you ask?”

 “I suddenly find that I have a fascination with astronomy.  And I would like to read more about it, as I have nothing better to do.”

 Kaladin raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Shallan smiled and batted her eyelashes at him.  Eyelashes that had been brushed with Jasnah’s peculiar black boot polish were better for batting at young men, she decided. 

 “I suppose I have nothing better to do, then,” he finally replied.  “Follow me, then.”

 They entered the same hallway she had walked through two days ago when she had been looking for the Doctor’s stillroom.  The doors with the brass plaques – _Lapis, Cerulean, Sapphire_ – were now open, revealing guest bedrooms and maids fluffing up pillows and arranging vases of flowers and baskets of sweetmeats.  They passed a maid pushing a trolley clattering with covered dishes; Kaladin caught one up and nodded to her.  She winked and blew him a silent kiss while Shallan looked on with astonishment.

 When Kaladin opened the door of the library, Shallan spoke.  “Do you – know that maid?”

 “Did you want to ask her about my socks?”

 She flushed, then turning away from him, angled toward the bookcases by the wall.  “I’m sure if I asked nicely enough, you wouldn’t hesitate to tell me yourself.”

 “If you asked especially nicely – if that were even possible for you, of course – I might even show you,” replied Kaladin, quite casually.  It was galling how he managed to speak in such controlled tones that one could never tell when exactly his delivery was meant to be taken in seriousness or humour.

 “I’m sure it’s too much of a bother for you – and I’m also sure there will be nothing worth seeing,” Shallan said briskly, and ran her gloved fingertips over the gold-embossed spines of Adolin’s books.

 She kicked off her heeled slippers and climbed the rolling ladder to peer at the top shelf, and huffed.  What had she been expecting?  Most of these books were on military subjects – histories, biographies of famous generals, essays on strategy and tactics, illustrated compendia of weaponry or field formation.  There was the ubiquitous section of Vorin tracts that every library possessed – even the small bookcase at Loch Davar had such a one – and they were apparently rarely used.  Shallan slid one book out and saw that the pages had not even been cut.

 She stepped down the ladder and walked onward.  Books on genealogy, folios on architecture, one very small row of foreign language titles, books on managing and caring for horses for sport and campaign, books on naval history and tactics.   She stopped at this shelf and dropped to her knees – there, that was what she wanted.  Basic naval astronomy for beginners, and manuals on introductory shipboard protocol for midshipmen and junior naval officers.

 Shallan plucked out three books and turned to the reading area – a large map table, surrounded by leather armchairs and sofas.  Kaladin was reading a newssheet from the rack of periodicals and broadsheets behind him.   The dish he had taken from the maid’s trolley lay uncovered on the low table in front of him, revealing a pyramid of small savoury pies.  The top of the pyramid was missing.

 She picked up a pie as she passed; the books were dropped onto the map table with a thump and a chair pulled out.  These books had been read before, but not recently by the looks of them.  Still, they had diagrams of star charts, for sextant use at night.  Shallan had been taught to read a sextant by Madame Tyn, but they had mostly used sightings of some distant object such as a tree on the horizon or the top of a hill, against the angle of the sun.  She was not familiar with the stars as the nights in Scotland had often been cloudy – and her father did not like it when she went out in the evenings for any length of time.

The red stars – she flicked through the book – the engravings in the astronomy book were black on white, and she could not tell.  She opened the second one, the midshipman’s manual, and this one, by the Heralds’ blessings, had coloured picture plate inserts along with simpler black engravings.  Shallan paused on the illustrations of knot types – the sailors had taught her some of the simpler knots on the _Wind’s Pleasure_ – and she had practiced them with hair ribbons in her cabin.  The back had star charts for recognising the major constellations.

The red stars were real stars, and went by the quaint colloquial name of _Taln’s Scar_ in Vorin nations.  Taln was the Herald Talenelat; such shortenings of names were commonly used when calling on the full palindromic name of a holy Herald was considered presumptuous, when one was not an Ardent nor in church.

Newssheets rustled behind her.  “I have often found myself pondering these last few days,” said Kaladin, “what exactly a scholar like yourself sees in a soldier like the Duke.”

Shallan pushed her chair back; she stood and stretched, peeling her gloves down and off her elbows and then her wrists and finally her hands.  She threw herself onto the sofa opposite Kaladin and picked up a pie; the pyramid was now only two layers high. 

 “I am not just a scholar, as he is not just a soldier – and neither are you just a surgeon,” she said, her mouth full.  She did not worry about preserving her dignity around Doctor Kaladin. 

“Do you even share anything in common with him?”  The newssheet was lowered and folded very precisely in half; Kaladin set it aside. 

“Ought I to?  I imagine that if I were forced to spend my days with someone identical to myself, I would tear my hair out in frustration.”

“And why is that?”

Shallan laughed, and said, “Because there would be twice as much annoying chatter, with half the substance.”

“Ah, I wondered if you’d noticed.”  Kaladin did not smile, but there was evident smugness in the set of his lips.

Shallan gestured breezily.  “I do it because the alternative is listening to you.”  She paused, and then continued, “the same question might be asked of you – what do you see in Adolin?  You are hardly alike.”

“He is a good man.”

“I hope he would make a good husband.”

“You still insist on pursuing him?”

“If he will have me, I suppose.  If not, I hope he would make a good husband to whomever else.”

“You think he would not have you?”

“I think,” said Shallan, knowing that their conversation, which had begun with light-heartedness, was now descending to more sober subjects – to cold truths that cowered at the prospect of seeing light.  “I think that a good man deserves a good woman.”

Kaladin inspected the pie in his hands; he broke off a piece of the pastry crust.  “You know, most of the young ladies who come to me asking for advice just want me to tell them how pretty they are.  But you—” he looked up and met her eyes with his dark and discerning gaze, “—you just want me to tell you that you’re not a terrible person—”

 “—That I’m not a killer,” Shallan cut in.  “And that is why I like Adolin.   I don’t feel like one when I’m with him.”

“Forgiveness and peace come from within.”  That was his surgeon’s voice, the emotionless voice that gave no hint of judgement or condemnation.

“There is nothing within.  I must find my forgiveness without.”

“You are wrong,” he said with inexplicable confidence.  “I know there is something within.”

“What is it, then?”

He looked at her; she looked back.  “Self-pity,” he said at last.  She did not think these were the words he really meant to say.

“And have you a cure for me, Doctor?”

“Conviction.  You are either a victim, or you are not.”  He put the pie back on the platter and brushed off his hands.  “No matter that you are still here and _he_ is not, if you see yourself as a victim of circumstance – you will never be anything but.”

Shallan knew he was talking of the man in the tower, the man she had killed by smothering his last gasping red breaths with her tartan.  The man he had assumed was the first man whose life she had taken.  His words were sincere – they soothed an ache that he had no idea even existed; they sought to fill the pit of nothingness inside of her that she had carried within her since the day the _real_ first man had died by her hand. 

“I hear the wisdom of experience in you,” she managed to say, forcing her voice to stay level and light.

“Not wisdom – but experience,” Kaladin replied. 

“Thank you for sharing.”

He took a deep breath, and spoke very gently.  “Marks on the spirit should not be borne for ever.  Shallan, I—”

Whatever he was about to say was cut off when loud trumpets blared from outside.  At first it sounded like sheer noise, exuberant noise, from the throats of an orchestra of trumpets played all at once, but it soon resolved into music – a fanfare of some sort.

“What is that?” Shallan asked, slipping her gloves back on and finding her abandoned shoes.

“The King has arrived.  The Feast has begun.”  Kaladin stood, and brushed crumbs off his blue breeches.  Shallan saw that his boots – he had large feet indeed – had scuff marks at the toes, and were clean but could not be described as mirror polished.  She supposed he had no valet of his own to black his boots and finish them with a champagne shine, and did not care enough to do it himself.

It was around mid-afternoon when they exited the library; they left the tray of pies on the low table – now covered.  Shallan had noticed when she had run her hands along the spines of the books, her gloves had not come away dusty – so there was a regular cleaning service for the room, even if it did not look like it had been used with much regularity. 

They strode through the hallways, liveried servants ducking out of their path, to the ballroom on the South Wing; Kaladin led the way.  Shallan kept her attention on her floor ahead of her; she did not particularly look forward to taking a tumble, although Kaladin would have surely found it an amusing sight.

“Doctor,” she panted, as they reached the end of a queue of guests proceeding through the doors of the ballroom.  “You were about to say something, and you never finished.”

Kaladin looked down at her upturned face, then shifted his attention to the open doors.  “I remembered that you have not had your bandage changed to-day.”

“Oh.  I thought it sounded like something important.”

“Your well-being _is_ important.”

 

***

 

Shallan was announced as _The Most Honourable Lady Shallan of Loch Davar_ ; she was interested to learn that Kaladin’s own service rank was warrant officer in the Kholin Regiment.

They passed through the honour guard of footmen at the entryway of the ballroom.  There was a landing, and shallow steps that curved downward into a grand room panelled with wood carved in relief and gilded; lamp chandeliers were suspended from above, and bright banners of Kholin blue hung from ceiling to floor.  One wall had a very long table draped with a white cloth and a row of attractively plated foods in small serving sizes, from savoury appetisers to desserts.  There was a musicians’ dais in one corner, and a number of round tables and folding chairs at the back for those who preferred to eat rather than mingle with other guests.

Shallan saw Wit replace a footman at the door – she smiled and curtsied in his direction, and he returned with a wink and a hearty mock military salute.   She picked up her skirts, and bounced down the steps, looking for someone – anyone – she knew.  But she did not recognise any familiar people, and most of the men wore dining suits with only the waistcoat or waistband to give any indication of a family connection, and she could not remember which colours went with which ducal House.

Jasnah pushed her way through the throng.  “Shallan, here, with me!” she called.

Shallan looked up at Kaladin; he did not say anything.  She sucked in a nervous breath and turned to Jasnah.  “Am I to be presented now?”

Jasnah took her by the wrist and led her to the back of the ballroom, to the rows of round tables.  There were two people seated there, surrounded by a few hangers-on; they excused themselves and withdrew when they noticed Jasnah bearing down on them. 

It was a man and a woman.  The man’s face was familiar – he had a face heavily lined and tanned by the sun; his features were distinguished in maturity, but his nose – rather too large, broken, and crookedly reset and healed – detracted from any potential for beauty.   His black hair was cropped short in the military fashion, and greyed at the temples; his eyebrows were very black too; they and the lines around his eyes and mouth conveyed a grave solemnity to his manner.  She knew him – he was the man, years aged but still recognisable, from the painting in the portrait gallery. Adolin’s father: the Prince Kholinar.

The woman sitting opposite held herself with the perfect posture of one completely familiar and comfortable with authority.  She was an older lady, a former Society beauty at least, or so Shallan thought.  But she had aged well, and gracefully; there was elegance in her every movement, and languid power in her relaxed appearance that Shallan knew to be merely – appearance.   She wore her hair elaborately dressed and set with jewelled combs; jewels and gold glinted from her ears, and throat, and around her fingers. 

They looked up from their conversation when Jasnah approached, towing Shallan behind her.  The man rose to his feet and adjusted his side-sword from under his military uniform coat.  The woman did not stand; she lazily straightened a fold of her skirt and her eyes flicked upward, darting from Jasnah and Shallan in a subtle – but not so subtle as to go unobserved – inspection.

Jasnah gave a shallow bow; Shallan dipped into a low and very formal curtsey.

“Your Highnesses – I am glad to see you to-night.  I should like to present my ward and travelling companion of the last half year,” said Jasnah, with her usual imperious tones.  Shallan could only wish she had Jasnah’s self-assurance.

Jasnah introduced Shallan the same way as she had been introduced to Adolin at their first luncheon – name and titles, followed by another formal curtsey.  It was easier, thought Shallan, when one did not think of anything when one did things – one could then act without thought, and with the precision of an automaton.

“Shallan, I introduce to you His Highness Dalinar Kholin, the Prince Kholinar,” Jasnah continued, “and Her Highness the Queen Mother and Queen Dowager, Navani Kholin.  My mother.” 

Prince Dalinar nodded to her in acknowledgement.  “Jasnah spoke very well of you.  She has not had a ward for as long as you have been hers.  Nor has my son had a guest at this House—”

He was interrupted by a man with long curled hair – fashionably tied into a tail – and a ruddy face, who called his name.  The new man was elaborately dressed; his jacket buttons were set with emeralds, and his neckcloth and the edges of his sleeves that peeked out of his dining jacket cuffs were made from fine lace.  It was the beautifully extravagant white lace more appropriate for ladies’ underdresses and nightshifts than a man’s shirt, but he apparently did not seem to mind. 

“Dalinar!” the man called.

Prince Dalinar turned away from them, and bowed.  “Please, you must excuse me for now, but please continue – Navani will be sure to relay this conversation to me afterward.”  He cleared his throat, and glanced at Lady Navani – they shared a look of mutual affection – and he strode off to meet the floridly dressed interrupter.  Dalinar felt affection for his late brother’s wife, Shallan perceived.  Somehow it seemed like something more, or deeper, than mere brotherly love.

Navani spoke.  Her voice was cold.  “So _this_ is what you’ve brought us?”

Jasnah took Prince Dalinar’s vacated seat.  “She’s an accomplished scholar, Mother.  I judged her capabilities myself.”

“We,” Navani said, royal authority ringing in her voice, “scarcely see the need for another scholar in the Family.”  She picked up a glass of wine from the table, and swirled it.  Bubbles ascended gently to the surface.  “The late Duchess brought with her the loan of her father’s twenty-five thousand,” she remarked.

Shallan spoke up.  “The Clan McValam can muster six thousand.”

One perfectly arched eyebrow rose.  “Are you Himself’s daughter, or his Tanist’s?”

“My father w—is a minor baron,” Shallan replied.  She hoped no-one had noticed her brief error.

“Is that so.” 

There was a pause, and Jasnah said, “the late Duchess was a love match.”

“She also had a respectable dowry to her credit.  Adolin can have his true choice for his second or third, but he must understand our current reality in the present.”  Navani said coolly; Shallan recognised some of Jasnah’s natural authority in her speech and manner.  “We need a strong Duchess.”  Her eyes flicked to Jasnah, and a thought – an emotion – passed from one woman to another; Shallan could not pick up its significance.  “Not just a scholar fixated on folk legends and bards’ tales.”

“Adolin has a choice,” answered Jasnah.  “The Prince my uncle guaranteed that.”

“Then we must ensure he makes the right choice.”  Navani set the glass of wine down on the table.  It made only a small clink, but it felt like a physical blow – one that almost reverberated in its impact.  It was heavy, and final, and unrelenting, like the sound of a door slamming shut. 

Shallan almost stumbled back from the force of the words – words that had been spoken conversationally, even if they were anything but friendly; a warning look from Jasnah kept her silent.  She clasped her hands in front of her, trying to keep them still in the aftermath of this terrible first introduction.  For Shallan had grown used to leaving pleased impressions in the thoughts of people she met for the first time; most people thought her clever or humorous when she tried to make herself appeal to their sensibilities by playing up what they liked to see.

It worked when she wanted it to, and when she didn’t bother, it was only around people whose opinion of her she considered irrelevant.  Like Doctor Kaladin, for instance.  It was something of a shock that to see that the Queen Dowager found her so unsuitable, so inadequate – when she hadn’t said or done anything yet to show herself to disadvantage.  She had been told that Lady Navani had had other preferences in the choice of the future Duchess Kholinar, but she had not expected that it would result in such a transparent dismissal of herself.

“Mother,” said Jasnah.  “I believe we must have a discussion on the meaning of the word _‘choice’_. _”_   She waved Shallan away with a hand gesture under the table.  Shallan left with grateful relief.

 

*** 

 

Shallan wandered dazedly through the ballroom, passing guests and groups in conversation.  No-one stopped her, or spoke to her; occasionally she paused when someone blocked her path, and now and then they hesitated as if it to say something – but she kept her eyes downcast and they stepped aside for her.  How humiliating it was to be chastised in public like that, even if no-one but Jasnah was close enough to hear.  It was humiliating to be chastised at all – and Shallan had very rarely in her life been handled – like _that_. 

Yes, she could admit, there were people who had raised their voices in anger at her in the past.  Mother had done it, before Mother had died.  Father had done it, but it wasn’t really to her – he had often raised his voice thus to address the whole family, but she could not say it was directed specifically to her.  Madame Tyn had scolded her as a matter of course during her feminine education, when her toes had not been pointed just so, or when her spoon clinked against the porcelain teacup or soup bowl.  Kaladin had shown hints of disapproval, both outright and ambiguous, at her past behaviour.

 _Utterly unsuitable._   Those words were the first and most blatant indication of Kaladin’s disapproval; he had said them in the retiring room, the night she had first arrived to Kholinar Court.  She had laughed it off, and had never considered the possibility of it being – _true_.

She saw flashes of Kholin blue in the crowd – it seemed as though the people were moving aside, separating themselves to cling to the walls of the grand ballroom; she heard the twang of musical instruments as the orchestra warmed up and corrected their pitch.  But she did not see Adolin, and she could not tell if one of the blue uniforms scattered through the mass of guests was _his_ uniform, or someone else who held rank in the Regiment.

“Shallan,” said a voice behind her.  A hand caught her wrist and gripped it tightly.

She stopped short and turned.  A blue sleeve, a scarred hand.  “Oh,” she said, “it’s you.”

“The first set is starting.  If you do not want to join, then I suggest we vacate the floor.” 

He led her off to the tables in a corner of the room, where there was some privacy that could be found in the hum of conversation and the first notes of the first set piece.   There was a young man with spectacles sitting in the corner, staring at a row of full wineglasses in front of him.  There was a pencil in his hand; he tapped it against the table in a rhythm that did not quite match the orchestra.  Scattered around him were menu cards taken from the buffet table – Shallan saw neat rows of numbers written on them, spaced around printed words: _Pork Terrine in Horseradish Aspic_ or _Pineapple Cream Trifle_.

Kaladin sat down at the table, and after hesitating for a second, Shallan sat also.  The young man sat opposite, gaze fixed on the wineglasses: each held a different colour of wine, and his arranging them into a line seemed to hold a significance of which only he was aware.   The man – he was closer to a boy, Shallan thought – had the soft features of one not quite past youth; he must be around her own age, or only very slightly older.  His hair was dark like most Anglethis, but there were yellow stripes scattered throughout.  He had on the blue uniform of a Kholin Regiment officer – there was the white shield-shaped patch with the tower and crown high on one slender arm, and on the other side – where Kaladin had his crossed keys of the Medical Corps – this man had a round patch depicting a wagon wheel over two crossed swords. 

He did not look up as they pulled their chairs to the table, but continued to tap his pencil against his menu cards.  “Each of these wines—” he said, without meeting their eyes.  His voice was soft, but curiously flat, as if there were no emotion in him; each word sounded as if it was chosen with great deliberation.  “Represents a different level of aeration.  There must be some intrinsic quality that determines how much vapour a liquid can hold.”  The pencil tapped as he spoke.  “Perhaps it is entirely environmental.  Would it be barometric pressure?  Or would it be temperature?”

Kaladin looked at Shallan; he raised an eyebrow.

“To determine how much vapour is in a liquid, you must first find a reliable way to capture and measure the vapour bubbles,” said Shallan, filling in the silence. 

“Yes,” said the man.  “The vapour bubbles have volume – they must have mass as well.  How much would a bubble weigh?”

Kaladin coughed.  “Renarin, may I introduce Miss – _Lady_ – Shallan?”

Shallan inclined her head toward him.  “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord Kholinshire.”

The man – Renarin – raised his head at last.  He looked something like Adolin, but his features were softer, less defined – he could not be called handsome, Shallan thought, only comely.  His hair was not shorn to a common soldier’s crop, but was combed neatly over his forehead; it was trimmed in the back so that he lacked a fashionable gentleman’s tail.  His spectacles hid much of the expressiveness in his visage – if he had any to show at all.

He did not say anything, and Shallan wondered if he were waiting on something.  But then he spoke.  “You may call me Renarin.  I do not mind.”  He paused, tapping with his pencil.  Shallan waited some more.  “Until the day you might call me _‘_ _Brother’_. _”_

“Oh.”  Shallan did not know quite what to say to that. 

Renarin turned back to his menu cards.  He shuffled them, and Shallan looked down.  They were not notes, but calculations of some sort.  She scanned them briefly; they contained numbers interspersed with brackets and Kharbranth letter symbols.  She recognised one or two lines, but the rest was unfamiliar.

“There was once a time when I was ashamed to be called _‘_ _Brother’_ , _”_ he said, eyes downcast, pencil moving over his cards. 

Renarin, Marquess Kholinshire, was rather unnerving.  It was commonplace to fling down harmless truths when conversing in mixed company – one could joke about their weak left hand in playing racquets, or how they never enjoyed last year’s operatic season even if it had been lauded by both Society and the newssheets – and it would be received with good humour.  But Renarin spoke of deeper truths that had disturbing implications: his truths made Shallan uncomfortable.  Renarin seemed to possess the uncanny awareness that was the opposite of Kaladin’s – the Doctor had an ability to discern lies and falsehoods in all their degrees of subtlety.

He did not resent the awkward spreading silence, nor did he appear to notice her fidgeting as she tried to think of something to say.

“If you are not ashamed to be _‘_ _Brother’_ , then I suppose I should not feel terrified at being _‘_ _Sister’_ , _”_ she said.  “If that day ever comes to pass.”  She pulled at her sash, tugged out the dance card by its blue tassel, and placed it on the table.  “Um.  Would you like to sign my dance card?”

Renarin’s pencil paused.  “Would the Doctor not like to—”

Kaladin cut in.  “Renarin, you would do Miss Davar an honour.”

Shallan smiled in what she hoped was a friendly manner.  “You could tell me more about the bubbles – I would truly like to hear more about them.  And no other gentleman has offered to dance, nor do I think they will.”

There was silence again.  Then Renarin’s left hand rose from under the table and slid the card toward himself; he opened it with a flick of a finger.  She saw that he had on a signet ring with a bezel in the shape of a – a lemon?  No, it wasn’t a lemon, but the all-seeing eye of the Almighty.  Instead of pupils, there was the tower and crown of House Kholin.   His pencil scratched over the card, then it was closed and slid back to her.  She tucked it into her sash.

“Will you watch my drinks, Doctor?” Renarin asked.

Kaladin grunted.  She noticed that he was looking at the menu cards and their calculations.  He did not comment on them, as Shallan was sure he would have done if she had missed the mark in one line or another.  Perhaps Renarin’s calculations were as correct as they were neat, then.

They waited for the set to finish, and as the orchestra paused to change their score books, Renarin stood up silently, and offered his arm to Shallan.  She took it, and he led her to the floor. 

When they wound their way past the tables and chattering groups, she noticed that there were many people still lining the walls of the ballroom, obviously with no intention of joining.  The dance sets on the card, she had observed, were mostly single pair dances.  And now she saw why – there was a severe imbalance of young gentlemen to young ladies.  She estimated that there was at least a third more of young ladies to gentlemen – something that would not have happened if the guest list had been composed with the proper attentiveness of a meticulous hostess.  

Jasnah would not have done this.  It must have been the Queen Dowager.

Renarin knew all the steps, but he was stiff – if still precise in his cues – and Shallan did not think he enjoyed it very much.  But he gave no indication of it; his hand holding hers was cool, and his grip was loose.  His posture was very straight, and when she stepped up close to him, she saw that he was very slightly shorter in stature than Adolin.  He did not smell like Adolin either.

“I see you use _delta_ in your calculations.  _Delta_ _one_ and _delta_ _two_ and _delta_ _three_ ,” remarked Shallan when Renarin did not say anything after some time.  This was one of the few Kharbranth letter symbols she recognised – she knew all of them, of course – where she also understood what factor or parameter they were meant to represent.

“The room,” explained Renarin, “and the wine cellar and the ice, and the difference between them.”

“I see,” said Shallan.

“It’s just like in the ether progressionals.”  Shallan’s hand twitched in his.  He did not comment on her reaction, but peered over her shoulder at the people dancing behind them.

“I did not take you for someone familiar with them.”

“The familiar is often the least expected.”

They did not speak for the rest of the dance, and he seemed distracted – he did not meet her eyes, or even look in her direction: his attention was focused on the other ladies in their fluttering gowns – _was he looking at their posteriors?_  

The dance ended, and he dropped her hand.

“Thank you for the dance, Renarin,” Shallan said, and curtsied. 

They returned to the table and the row of wine glasses. 

“Diving bells,” said Renarin rather suddenly.  “That is the solution.”

It took a moment for Shallan to grasp his meaning.  “Oh – for the bubbles?”

“Yes, for measuring bubbles.”  He did not smile, but still he looked pleased as he pulled out his chair and picked up the pencil.  “Come back if you want to dance again.”  He scribbled busily on the menu cards; Shallan noticed there were some fresh ones laying on the table now.  _Dill and Brined Salmon Toast_ , she read.  _Smoked Oyster and Turtle Soup_.    _Cherry and Cheese Cake._

Kaladin took her arm and gently led her away.            

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More character development for Shallan here - we're setting up for the end-game now. This has been a pretty long story, and I feel like ending it with a bang, because I don't think I'm cool enough to do a Sanderlanche. This chapter has a lot of your favourite characters because fanservice, why not.
> 
> On Kaladin's uniform - he has no Bridge Four patch because there's no Bridge Four in this universe. Kind of obvious, since there are no chasms or Shattered Plains.  
> “Am I leering, then?” - Shallan is flirting but she isn't fully aware of it, she just does it because she likes trying to troll Kaladin and it gets a reaction from him every time. He's aware of it, and it's frustrating for him for various reasons.  
> “It’s Wit.” - So apparently Shardpools can transport you into the next universe, and even outside the Cosmere. This guy gets everywhere, like bubblegum. He's very genre savvy, and apparently travels through a lot of AU's because he references other media.  
> "I sense the troubadour in you" - "Troubadour's love" means unrequited love, or courtly love from a distance. A minstrel can sing songs about his fair lady, but he can never date her because she's promised to Count Paris or Rillir Roshone or whoever. Wit sees it straight off.  
> "You may call me Beloved" - :-D  
> "Pages had not even been cut." - in the old days, paper was made and printed in big sheets, which were folded and bound. You had to cut the pages open the first time you read a book. Uncut pages means no one read it.  
> On Navani and Dalinar - Navani is a manipulative bee with an itch here, and a political player. I thought it was an informed trait in the real SA - Dalinar described her as a queen bee in social circles, but you only ever saw her play with fabrials and that was it. I wanted to emphasise her manipulative attitude, and also reference her insta-dislike of Shallan in WoR. But in this AU, Jasnah isn't dead so I went with another angle. Dalinar is a nicer guy, though.  
> "The late Duchess" - Adolin's mother had Shardplate in her dowry, but since Shards don't exist in this AU, why not a mercenary army. It makes a match valuable, especially to a former warmonger like Dalinar. It's also historically accurate - the American Revolutionary War was fought with loaned German soldiers and hired German mercenaries.  
> On Renarin - Adolin mentions in WoK that he can't tell the difference between wines (he just picks one off the menu at random) but his brother can drone on all day about them. Renarin is not a Radiant, but since Shallan can draw, Renarin is very good with numbers and he is also perceptive, but doesn't fully understand people's emotions.  
> “There was once a time when I was ashamed to be called Brother” - Renarin was a very troubled boy once. But now he is better and doesn't feel useless anymore since he got a posotion in the army. His shoulder patch means he's a logistics officer. In an AU with no Soulcasters, most armies historically foraged and requisitioned food (AKA looting) from local farmers, but Dalinar doesn't do that because he's a Good Guy.  
> “Would the Doctor not like" - Renarin picks up on it too.


	15. XV

They later found themselves grazing at the buffet table, along with a number of older guests to whom the prospect of dancing was beyond both their agility and their dignity.  Shallan piled jam tartlets on her plate, next to a croquette and a stack of pickled vegetables held together by a stick. 

 “What do you make of him?” asked Kaladin, filling his own plate.

 “Renarin?  He’s very … eccentric.  But not unpleasant,” Shallan replied, catching up a fork from the trays of silverware in front of an ice sculpture carved into the shape of tower.  “His calculations are interesting.  I thought they looked to be a variant of the vapour progressionals – the ones you use on summer days.”  She stopped, and considered her brief conversation with him during their dance.  “Is — is he a wretch like me?”

 “No,” said Kaladin, stern and disapproving.  “If you read more widely, you’d see for yourself that the numbers are a tool.  Not a confession.”

 “What other applications might they have?”

 “In medical academia, there are theories about the link between vapours and liquid in blood.  Some theorise that our existence depends on a connection between breath and blood – air is dissolved or bubbled through our blood, and it is used up somehow.  Which is why we need to keep breathing.” 

 “Why do our bodies need air?  Has that ever been explained?”  Shallan, a devotee of the natural sciences, was intrigued by this line of discussion.  She had studied mostly morphology and physiology of living creatures, and the mechanisms and arithmetic of inheritance, but they were subjects limited to the books she could find or borrow, and specimens she could observe on the family estate.

 “Our bodies are made of animalcules, and there is something within them that requires air for various process,” said Kaladin.  “But most of that is all hypothetical – we haven’t instruments fine enough to see them clearly for ourselves, and we merely postulate they exist based on simple experimentation.”  He looked at her, and saw that she wasn’t bored by his explanation – she was fascinated.  He continued.  “It’s similar to the smallest unit of a pure element: no-one has ever seen any of those, but most people accept that they must exist, because they react in predictable and replicable ways.”

 Shallan nodded.  “Botanical – animalcules – if plant ones could be called that, are much larger.  You can still see those with rough magnification – and see the things inside them, if you hold a lamp underneath.” 

 His dark eyes lit up when they spoke of natural philosophy; it was a subject in which he held much interest.  Shallan, when she had first met the Doctor, had assumed he was a surgeon – or derogatorily called _sawbones_ – someone who could draw a line on a man’s leg and cut it off straight, as anyone could who had completed an apprenticeship in dressing meats at a grocer’s market. 

 But Kaladin could think like an academic, and he believed in organised science, involving proofs and quantities, and structured experimentation.  It was the neat mode of thinking that Jasnah endorsed, and had tried to win Shallan over to when she had seen that Shallan preferred the qualitative measures and the observation of common themes in her study of natural history.  Shallan had the mind of an artist; it was only necessity that had given her reason to learn arithmetic and chemistry.  Madame Tyn, conversely, had believed that skills in the humanities and language arts was all a lady needed; she had not seen much use in the constant quibbling and very male world of scientific academia.

 Kaladin stopped short in the middle of sentence; his eyes left her face with the briefest flicker to follow something behind her.  Shallan turned.  It was Adolin, in his regimental uniform, surrounded by a number of young men.  He had not noticed their presence.

 The young gentlemen matched him in stature and confidence in their upright carriage; they were all of them gallants of the high nobility – well-dressed in black formal coats with stiff white shirtfronts; there were one or two others wearing the blue of the Kholin Regiment.  They were laughing loudly and having their wineglasses refreshed, and did not bother to conceal their conversation.

 One young man in a black formal coat slapped Adolin on the back.  “What’s this I hear about a Scottish girl?” he said.

 Adolin shrugged as a footman poured wine for him.  “We’re just courting, Jak.  And it might not even get that far.  She’s only been here a week.”

 “I never thought you were the type to let yourself be nailed into an arrangement, Adolin,” said the young man.  “There are lots of winds to ride out there, you know.”

 “Like I said, it’s far from official.”

 “In that case, let me introduce you to the ladies.”  He waved a hand, and a group of giggling girls colourfully dressed in silk gowns glided over.  They wore their hair elaborately braided and stuck with jewelled pins; their bodices were laced up tight to show their endowments to full advantage. “Inkima, Deeli, Rilla, Malasha, Janala, Danlan—”

 “—And Melali,” Adolin finished, kissing them each on the hand.  They simpered in their loathsome twittering way, and fluttered fans over their faces.  “How’s your sister?”

 Melali giggled and batted her eyelashes over her fan.  “As eager to see you as I am, sir.”  She stroked Adolin’s arm.

 The young man, Jak, threw an arm around Inkima’s waist.  He must have brushed against her boldly, for she gasped and tittered and pressed herself against him; she did not appear to object at being handled in such a coarse way.  The other girls surrounded Adolin, two on each arm, and waved their dance cards in his face. He laughed at something one of them said, and signed their cards one after the other.

  _Well, now I see that the reputation was not for nothing - it was earned, and well-earned at that,_ thought Shallan bitterly _.  The gentleman becomes the rake.  Finnie was right about everything._

_Everything except for myself and the Doctor, of course._

 She stood up and went to find the footman with the drinks.  She found him – he held a round silver platter of mostly empty glasses and two full ones.  She took a glass of sparkling white wine and downed it in a few gulps, and returned it to the tray.  Then she picked up the one remaining glass, and finished that.  There was a footman behind her with a tray of fresh drinks, so she took a glass of claret for her next one, for variety’s sake.

 She sipped at it, and turned about, searching for more drinks.  If Renarin had managed to find six different wines, there was surely more than two to be had.   She bumped into Kaladin, who took her by the shoulder and steadied her.

 “One drink an hour is usually the rate that guarantees sobriety,” he remarked.

 “Sobriety at this party?  I do not recall seeing that name on the guest list.”

 “You would not want to put yourself in an undignified position, would you?”

 “I doubt anyone would notice if I did.”

 “Does it bother you?”

 “What?”

 “That.”  He jerked his head in the direction of Adolin and his friends.

 “No.”

 “Is that the truth?”

Shallan spared them a quick glance.  Two of the girls were holding Adolin’s hands and tugging him onto the dance floor.  It did bother her, as much as she hated to admit it.  There was something in her that cried out – in the anger and loneliness of rejection, in despair – she had thought she was – _special_ – to him, and now she found out she was not, that she was … nothing.  She paused.  No, not nothing – just nothing more than another one of the Duke’s girls: interchangeable, replaceable, identical in their intentions toward him.

 She could not blame him for it.  She was the villain; she had wanted to use him thoughtlessly – it was only fair that he should act with equal intention.

 He laughed with the – other girls; he held them by the waist, and by the hand, and their hands traced patterns on his back, and their arms were thrown over his shoulder; they whispered things into his ear.   Shallan closed her eyes.  It was inevitable, she knew, that there would come a day that anyone who knew her, or liked her, would see that she was not a person they would want to know when they found alternative to her company.  Even if she could not be said to be a good person, or a bad person, it still came with the implication that there existed better people.  What did innate Grace matter when one had lawful Grace in plenty: enough hereditary blessings to fill buckets up with money, and fill regiments up with mustered men.

  _Annulments can be granted upon infidelity,_ whispered the voice her mind.  It was Brother Kadash’s voice, and for that instant it sounded like Jasnah’s too.  Jasnah had suggested an annulment on the birth of an unsuitable first child – perhaps _this_ could be a better and easier way to arrange her return to scholarship and the comforting routine of Jasnah’s guidance.  _So_.  She would willingly tolerate it, if she could not like it.  She had suffered worse things, and uncontrolled affection for others – well, that was no worse – and when considered, much better – than the uncontrolled fury that her father had felt. 

 Philandering, she knew, was the unofficial occupation for gentlemen of leisure; it would have been socially unacceptable for them to hold a profession or position for pay.  Rakishness – skirtchasing – womanising, whatever euphemism was currently fashionable, was condoned; it was commonplace – and discretion was only required after marriage, to satisfy the terms of a contract.   Her resolve firmed; she took a bracing gulp of her claret.

 “Yes,” she said, her voice cold and steady.  “I don’t care.  There can be a – a stable full of – _concubines_ – but there will only be one Duchess.  Well, only one Duchess at a time, at least.  And that is what matters.”

 Kaladin eyed her sceptically.  “So very mercenary.  Noble ladies really are all the same.”

 “Noble ladies know that love and happy marriages are just foolish hopes to make their honeymoon worth enduring.”

 “What might a maiden know about marriage?”

 “I know enough to understand that love and happiness are a luxury.  And like all other luxuries, one can quite capably do without them.”

 Kaladin’s lips twitched with grim humour.  “Your cynicism scarce befits your youth.”

 She looked up at him and laughed.  It was not a very convivial sound.  “It is pragmatism, Doctor, and it is best learned early.”

 “Indeed, Miss Davar, and we have learned from the best.”

 “It is a shame that others have not the benefit of such an education.”

 “Regarding your education – do you know the Continental waltz?”

 “I have only practised it with my brothers.”

 “I am not – nor do I wish to be – your brother, but I am entirely certain the skill is transferable.  Would you lend me your dance card?”

 Shallan pulled the dance card out of her sash.  “I must first insist that I confirm for evidence of prior engagements.”  She flicked the tassel aside and opened the card.  “Oh, it looks like my dance card is quite blank.  How astonishing.” 

 “Shall I, then?”  Kaladin held out his hand for her card; he had found a pencil somewhere, and when she handed him her card, he spent several seconds longer than she had expected to write a single name.  Then he held it back out to her, and she slipped it into her sash without looking any further.

 “Shall we, then?”

 He took her hand.  “Oh, and one thing, Miss Davar – you must take the lead and I shall follow … in reverse.”

 It was a very queer sensation to dance the lady’s steps while counting cues for the gentleman’s.  She tapped Kaladin on the shoulder to remind him when to turn, but he soon accustomed himself to it, after several painful missteps involving a pair of very large boots. 

 “You dance very well – for a woman,” said Shallan, smiling up at him.

 “Thank you, I learned at school,” he replied.

 “Kharbranth Academy teaches ladies’ steps?”

 “They describe it as a cruel and unusual punishment.”

 “As cruel and unusual as any governess’s lesson on deportment.”

 “Learning how to drink tea is a cruelty?” said the Doctor, amused at the notion.  “My, your suffering near rends my heart.”

 “Please, Doctor, tell me that after a fitting for your first bodice,” Shallan returned. 

 “I should think that would make for a very undignified position.”

 “Fortunately for you, you were never a follower of primitive country traditions,” said Shallan.  “And I do not think you are the type to put much stock in social obligation.”

 “Yes, how very fortunate.”

 “For the both of us, I’m sure.”

 “Indeed,” he said.  His voice was softly pensive.

 They finished one set, and started another.  Shallan could not decide if Kaladin was a better dancer than Renarin – Renarin was stiff and inattentive; Kaladin had put his foot forward when the gentleman was supposed to step back in the turn, and had trodden on her toes.  He had not put his full weight on her foot, but they were satin dancing slippers, and could do very little with regards to cushioning. 

 Kaladin’s stature and their height difference, though Shallan had never liked that she could not glare at him without angling her head all the way back, had its benefits here.   She did not have to look at the other people around them; she did not have to see Adolin in the arms of one of his … harem.  She could just focus her gaze on Kaladin’s neckcloth and that one whisker hair on his neck that he had missed during shaving, whilst mechanically counting the steps and occasionally signalling the cues.

 She wondered about Kaladin’s opinion of – young ladies.  She had never considered the possibility of his being a natural singleton or an invert: though they happened on occasion, it was something that was never spoken of in either company or privacy.  She did not think he had displayed any overt interest in the maids with which she had seen him interact; she had observed in coaching inns on the journey with Jasnah that many people of the lower classes did not follow the strict rules of propriety that were observed to the letter by the gentry – when they attended social events in the public eye.  It was therefore not shocking to see maids show their interest in men – at least, men who were not their social superiors by far, or their direct employers.   The lower classes were not expected to be paragons of morality and virtue that was part of the expected – but unenforced – duties of those Graced by the Almighty to be leaders of society.

 Kaladin was not gentry.  He was middle class, and theoretically within reach of the lower class, if they were ambitious enough in their pursuit.  He was not expected to follow the social expectations that constrained those of privilege, like herself or Adolin.  He could marry as he liked; he could dally as he liked – within reason.  But, of course, reason would be lenient for him. 

 Now she understood Finnie’s winking when she had hinted at something between Shallan and the Doctor, after his visit to her bedchamber to change her bandages.  It would surely appear dubious when one was unaware that Kaladin’s visit was with the perfect innocence of a professional physician’s treatment of a patient – and Shallan almost laughed at the ironic absurdity that Kaladin was managing _her_ mysterious personal issues.  She had been confused when she had first learned of them, the first night she had dined with the gentlemen.

 Shallan had been confused about many things, she realised, upon her arrival to Kholinar Court.  She had not even been aware of own her confusion; it had been clouded in naïveté.  Her life had been planned for her by Jasnah, just as it had been by her father in Loch Davar.  She would be a scholar, she would woo Adolin, she would marry him – and then what?  She had presumed she would become the scholar again, after glossing over that missing interval which she hadn’t wanted – _dared_ – think about.

 Well, she knew now the things she had not known a week ago, and although it was not a fate that girls who had heads stuffed with silly romantic day-dreams could be eager for – at least it had the solid weight of certainty.  Certainty of a life, a stifling but luxurious life, with a wandering man, was better than the wandering half-life of an uncertain future.  At least in the former situation, one could be assured of regular meals, and that was not something Shallan could take for granted after the last desperate months before she had found Jasnah.

 Adolin, although he might wander and be negligent in his treatment of her beyond the contractual obligations of husbandly duty, was not someone who would deliberately seek to hurt her.  She did not take him for the type to feel satisfaction or glee in seeing pain in others – an image of skinned frogs pinned to the ground with slivers of whittled sticks rose up – and she had seen the proof of it that night in the forest.  She had no obligation to love him – Jasnah, and any marital lawyer, would never consider it a requirement of matrimony; assuring a match would protect the people she _truly_ loved.  Her emotions cooled; her disappointment faded; she drew on the nothingness of apathy inside her for strength and fortitude enough to carry on.  She had suffered worse blows, much worse; this was nothing in comparison. 

 The set ended, and she tore herself away from Kaladin’s arms to find the footmen for another glass of wine.  There were Ardents in the crowd, in black hard-wearing homespun cut in simple rectangular shapes, belted at the waist.  And that was when she saw the blue eyes and handsome face of Brother Kabsal.  He saw her too; their eyes met, and his mouth opened, and his hand reached out for her.

  _The familiar is often the least expected._

 Shallan almost gasped at the shock of it. 

  _He was here._

  _The Organisation was here._

 She panicked; she whirled around on unsteady feet and stumbled away, pushing through the guests and mumbling apologies.  

 She must have pushed past Adolin; Shallan heard the screech of a girl in his arms as she hurtled by.  She heard his voice, calling her name, once, twice, and then the crowd closed around her and he was swept away. 

 Shallan climbed the stairs to the ballroom doors, two steps at a time, almost tripping in her heeled slippers and her sore toes.  She kicked off the shoes, picked up her skirts, and ran.

 She careened past servants and guests in the hallway, but when she turned a corner, she saw she hadn’t been fast enough.  Kabsal stood in front of her, and at his side was a large bald man whose muscular shoulders stretched against the cloth of his Ardents’ robe.  The man cracked his knuckles slowly.

 _“You_ _—_ Kabsal!” Shallan panted.

 “The troublesome young lady from the House,” said Kabsal, taking a few casual paces to block the way in front of her.  The other man stepped behind her. 

 “What are you doing here?”

 Kabsal smiled.  It was not very friendly.  “The church maps were taken from me.”  He waved a nonchalant hand.  “But – no matter.  We sent a man to the City to get others.”  He paused, and looked at her.  “And what did we find there?  Jasnah had got there first, and the archives were empty.  The Royal Society is in her pocket, and the Guild of Architects has accepted her as their new patroness.

 “We went back to the Forest and it was crawling with soldiers in the guise of gamekeepers.  That was when I thought – of things being bought.  And of leverage.  And then I thought of you.”

 Kabsal took a step forward; Shallan sidled closer to the wall in an attempt to slide around him.  He matched her, step for step.   “Lady Shallan,” he said.  “You could be very useful to us – and to me.  You needn’t be an enemy of the cause.  You could abandon these _people_ — _”_ a look of distaste crossed his face, “—and join us in our mission.”

 He raised a hand and held it forward; Shallan stood still and trembling.  The hand brushed the line of her jaw and tilted up her chin.  Kabsal’s blue eyes gazed into hers.  They were an ordinary blue, like her eyes – or Adolin’s – but there was a curious hunger there, a hungry passion restrained by a careful systematic mind.   Shallan closed her eyes.  She felt his thumb lightly grazing her cheek.

  _Do something._

Do what?

_Use what you have._

_You needn’t be the victim._

 Shallan took a step back, hands clutching at the silken layers of her dress.  She took another step back.  Then, without a sound, she surged forward, head down, and butted Kabsal very hard in the stomach. 

 Kabsal fell back with a low groan; all the air whistled out of him.  He toppled back against the wall and hit a spindly-legged side table on which had been placed a floral arrangement of blue-dyed tulips in a painted porcelain bowl.  The table rocked, and it tipped over, and the bowl fell to the ground and shattered.  Water, gardeners’ moss, and flowers scattered across the floor.  Kabsal struggled feebly to get up; he slipped; he fell onto the shards of porcelain with hands open to catch himself.  He gasped in pain and shock and lay on the floor; the water underfoot pinked with his blood.

 Kabsal choked out a few words to the other Ardent.  “Catch her and bring her back.  Don’t hurt her – _too much_ , _”_ he wheezed.  _“Tues-la si elle résiste.”_

 Shallan ran.

 She ran past guests and servants in the presentation wing of the House, to the foyer; she skidded to a stop and eyed the front door.  She could commandeer a guest’s carriage, and leave this House, and go home, and never again have to deal with men whose hands and voices were raised in anger against her.  She could pretend that this whole episode – this whole ghastly, traumatic, emotional week – had never existed, and continue with her life.  She had done it before; she had not come out any worse for it.

  _No._

 It had scarred her; she had been broken for it.

 Because he – _the Organisation_ – would come for her; the fear of it would lurk in the shadows so that every time she turned the corner in panic and saw a flicker of motion, she would sigh in relief afterward that it was nothing, that it was just a trick of the light.  And she would live in constant terror every single day of her life from now, until one future day – that one last day where the shadows hid more than just another empty corner. 

 Kaladin had told her she could go home at any time.  Why hadn’t she?  Because she wasn’t weak, and she had wanted so much to prove it to him – she had wanted to be right, or at least appear to be right.  She could be the victim, or she could choose not to be.  She did not have to love Adolin, but she could still marry him.  She could defend herself – and she had the means at her disposal; she could prevent a man from ever hurting her.  A man – a memory – a painful, terrible past life – could only hurt her if she allowed it to.  And she did not allow it.  Not this time.

 She drew a shuddering breath and headed for the nearest familiar hallway.  When she glanced back, she saw the man in the Ardent’s robe slowly approaching the foyer.  He was walking through the hallway, opening every door on the way, checking the rooms for sign of her.

 Shallan could not run away.  She could choose to fight – to defend, if not to attack.  She had done it before – how she cringed at the memory – and she had come away from it, the victor and the victim all at once: she had not been marked, but the marks stayed inside her, and she carried them always, and she held them within her as warning and reminder. 

She passed the door to the Cobalt Room, and she thought of the room full of swords that she did not know how to use, and she thought of the lady Knights painted on the wall of the temple in the forest.  The last time she had killed a man, and the time before that, she had not used a sword.  She had used only what she had. 

 She stood in front of the retiring room’s door.  It seemed the friendliest room in the House; it lacked the grandeur of the dining room, but it possessed more personality than her own bedchamber, which she had seen only as a room for sleeping and changing one’s clothes.  She closed her eyes, and drew on the nothingness inside her to overwhelm the terror and panic that hovered on the edge of her conscious mind.  When she felt nothing, the effort it took to be wary and afraid was beyond her, and she could not dwell on the morality or wrongness of taking another being’s life away from them; she could not dwell on anything at all.

This time, unlike that last time – and the last time before the last time – when she had descended into the nothingness, she did not resist it, and she did not feel ashamed or afraid of this Shallan.  This was the true Shallan, the one under the mask.  She had glimpsed it before, and sought the blurred boundaries of it with great regularity, when she settled her mind into the calm of her artist’s trance – it was the same thing, only this was all of her, all the way in.  It was as familiar as the way a pencil could be adjusted into the tracing position, or the shading position, or the inking position, with an automatic twitch of the fingers: it was mental memory falling into its well-worn place, as muscle memory was part of her art.

 It was cold and emotionless apathy; it was observing the world without focus, without bias, without interest on any single thing: crisp reality in all of its magnificent detail, light and shade and colour and shape in the truest clarity.  She had used it in the past without knowing what it was, without _wanting_ to know it; it was her bulwark against regret and despair; it was the monster within her – _no_ , _it was her protector_ – and it lent her strength when she had need of it most, and allowed her to process information without hesitation and second-guessing.  She used it to draw from life, and she could use it now to defend her life.

 Shallan opened the door.   The handle turned easily.  She got to work.

 The first thing she did was to push the sidebar containing rattling glass cups and snifters to the door, so that it would only open two or three inches.  Enough so any pursuer might open it and know there was someone inside to put up resistance, and enough time to give warning for what she was about to do.

 She picked up the box of knife blades from the sidebar, and took out a handle-less knife.  It was a double edged blade, like the point of spear; it narrowed into a tang that had two holes punched out where the handle would have been bolted on.  She undid her sash, laying it aside, along with her dance card.  She placed the tip of the blade under her left arm, as Kaladin had once done to her in the forest on that night.  She cut her dress off; it could not have been removed unless she had wanted to reach all the way around and undo the buttons on the back one by one.

 Shallan went to the covered billiards table and collected four ivory billiard balls in a fold of her underdress; she approached the racked cues and slid two off the wall. 

 With the knife, she scored a line around one wooden cue, and broke it over her knee.  It became two pieces: a longer end from the base of the cue, and a shorter, narrower end of the tip.  She did the same for the second cue.  Then she reached into her underdress, and untied the laces of her bodice, and dragged it out.  She used the knife to cut the knot of her bandages.  

 The handle-less blades were tied to the sturdier pieces of the broken wooden cues, with the thin bodice lacing going around and through the rivet holes punched through the tang.  She tied sailors’ knots – a simple belaying pin twist – to hold it secure; she had practiced with hair ribbons on the _Wind’s Pleasure_ , but bodice laces were easily managed.  She wrapped the bandage around it tightly, to fasten it securely.  It was a very rough job – but she would only need to use it once.  And it would be better if this makeshift spear were only capable of being used one time:  that way it could not be turned around and used against her.

 She had read before – and information shuffled in, and through, and away with clarity and precision; her mind sifted through and picked the most useful pieces – such as the fact that one hunted boars with spears.  Continental armies used them in the form of entrenched bayonets, and called them _‘_ _swine’s feathers’_ , for a reason.  They were a defensive tactic, used to drive away an enemy of greater size and strength and momentum: a maddened boar with gouging tusks, or a charging cavalry dragoon.

 A boar, a horse, a bull, a man – they were all of them larger and stronger than she was – could they really be all that much different?  When they charged, they charged for a target.  She took her beautiful – lovingly made, even more lovingly altered – ball gown and laid it on the silk-damask sofa so that the hem of the dress rested on the floor.  From the door of the retiring room, one could only see the back of the sofa, and the dress peeping out from under the carved wooden legs.  She had used the arrangement to her advantage on that first night of eavesdropping.   She and Adolin had used it when she had kissed him, and he had kissed her, while Kaladin, unseeing, had stood at the sidebar.  She did not feel anything as that memory came and went.

 She tied her sash to a tassel of a cushion, and arranged it on the floor behind the draped hem of her gown, with four billiard balls balanced on top.   She crossed the room and blew out all the lamps from the doorway to the sofa.  The fireplace had not been lit; the only light now came from three lamps at the rear of the room, which shone with soft translucence through the fine blue silk of her gown. 

 Shallan took out two knife blades and tossed her bodice and dance card under the billiards table, and settled herself crouching behind the leather upholstered winged armchair that had been positioned in front of the cold fireplace.   She held her spear with one hand, and the end of her sash with the other; it trailed across the floor and behind the sofa, and was almost invisible in the gloomy half-light.

 She waited.  Five minutes became ten became twenty to the ticking of the wall clock.  Her legs grew stiff; she stretched her muscles to relieve the tingling sensation of interrupted circulation.  Then she heard the sharp knock of the door hitting the edge of the wooden sidebar.  The door closed, then it opened again, slower; it tapped against the side of the wooden cabinet.  Shallan tightened her grip on the billiard cue.

 The door burst open, and the cabinet thudded as it was knocked over on its side; there was a tinkling crash of glass.  In came the man – the false Ardent – in the black robe.  He held a pistol in his hand, aimed toward the only light in the room – the lamps behind the sofa and the low table that held the book she had never finished, and might possibly never finish.

 Shallan gave the end of the sash in her hand a sharp tug.  She felt the cushion it had been tied to jerk, although she couldn’t see it; weight shifted, and the billiard balls dropped onto the carpeted floor with a soft and muffled thump – it sounded almost like a person moving about.

 The muzzle of the pistol swung toward the sofa. 

 The false Ardent chuckled.  “I know you are there, little girl.  You cannot hide from me,” he said.  His voice was low and menacing; her well-trained mind observed that he did not speak with a recognisable accent of either upper or lower classes, or even any accent or dialect of the Anglethi Isles.  He sounded like a foreigner.

 He stepped forward slowly.  Shallan gave the sash another tug, and the cushion rustled against the silk skirts of her abandoned ball gown.

 His back was to her now.  Slowly, she got to her feet, feeling indecently exposed without her bodice.  She stepped out from behind the armchair, held her spear in front of her, and sprinted for the man, bare feet pattering on the carpeted floor.  Men, horses, dogs – they all looked similar when you stripped away the skin and bone and saw what they were underneath.  Kaladin would know this: he had seen them all laid bare in front of him – perhaps that was why he treated them all the same no matter who or what they claimed to be.

 Diagrams of comparative morphology skimmed through her mind, but here she relied mainly on instinct.  She sprang forward; she thrust the spear at the man’s back, and it went into him, and she shoved upward with all the force she muster, with the strength of her hips and legs behind the angle of her shoulders and wrists.  He grunted as the blade pierced him – he was shocked at the suddenness of it – and Shallan was shocked too at how easily it slid into him.  On reflex, his pistol fired into the air, ear-shatteringly loud in the closed space of a room – it spewed grey smoke, and his head turned, and he twisted around to face her.

 Shallan let go and ducked around the armchair, catching up the shaft of her second spear.  He was stumbling now, pulling himself along with one hand on the back of the sofa; he had seen that there was no girl, only an empty dress and a tumbled cushion surrounded by billiard balls.  The false Ardent reached into his robe and drew out a second pistol, which he cocked with one shaking hand.

 She dived to the floor just in time; he fired the gun; she felt a hot wind burning against her shoulder as she hit the carpet – there was a scorching heat, and then that same spot felt strangely cool, but she ignored it.  She rolled, and she got back to her feet, and she collected her second spear – and the man was only a few feet away, arms reaching for her.  He was groaning as he threw down his spent weapon, and bloodied foam flecked lips twisted into a manic snarl; his eyes showed white all around and he twitched and shuddered with every strained step.

 He came on slowly, slowly and implacably, and with one last tortured gasp of effort he leaped for her.  She did not run, and she did not turn her back to him.  She was tired, so very very tired, but this time she did not want to lay her arms aside, and turn away, and close her eyes so she could pretend that there was nothing bad in the world and everything was the way it should be.  Because the world was not good, and if it had ever been good, all the goodness had long since been leached away in the four-and-a-half-thousand years since the world had ended and restarted to wash away the sins of men. 

  _And the sins of women._

 He reached her, and she held the spear angled outward in front of her, the base of the wooden billiard cue to the floor, as she had seen done in engravings of the Sverickan musket infantry.  Then there was an embrace of the least romantic sort imaginable, for his breath whistled against her cheek, spraying bloody foam that was more blood than foam, and the hands that reached for her were harsh with bruising force.  The second spear entered from the front, under the ribcage, and knocked against the point of the first.   He wheezed, and he fell against her, bearing her to the ground, keening with the pain of it.

 He whispered words, nonsense syllables; they poured out of him with stuttering incomprehensibility.  He was heavy; she rolled him off to the side and she wriggled out from underneath, the front of her underdress wet with his blood.  She felt the powder burn now, on her shoulder and down the back of her upper arm, and it stung, fierce and insistent; for now she ignored it. 

 She retrieved a handle-less blade from behind the armchair.  When she returned, he was still not dead.  His eyes were open and unfocused, and he twitched when she prodded him with a toe. There was a nauseating smell that was not just the tang of blood and sweat of a dying man.  She looked down.  The makeshift spear had torn a hole through his robe and into his belly; the juices of his – interior – had welled out and soaked the black homespun and the loosened bandages wrapped around the tang of the knife blade.

 Shallan almost returned the food she had eaten and the three – or was it four? – glasses of wine she’d had that afternoon.

 She approached him, and he was still gibbering and twitching on the floor, slowly dying as his body poisoned itself with its own acids.  The carpet around him was sodden with blood, just as his robe was, and her underdress.  She had no bodice on underneath, and his wet blood caused the fabric to cling to her skin; she suddenly felt very cold and naked.  She kicked at his arm, and it flopped limply out; she rolled the coarse black cloth of his sleeve up and saw a tattoo of three diamonds halfway up his forearm.  She closed her eyes, and drew the blade across his wrist. 

 She did the same thing for his other side.

 It was Kaladin’s mercy.

 And she felt nothing from it.

 The man gibbered and kicked.  He muttered words.  _“La tempête approche, elle est inarrêtable,”_ he said, his tongue writhing impotently between crusted lips. _“Vive l’Empereur.”_ Then he gave a shudder, and fell still.

 When the man was dead, Shallan stumbled to the armchair and collapsed into it; she sat with her knees tucked under her chin; she drew in a long and heaving breath.  Sensation returned; she felt the pulsing throb of the burn on her shoulder now, and the stiffness of her dress drying to her body with a dead man’s blood, and she felt empty and cold and hollow. 

 She still felt the uninhibited clarity of thought.  The nothingness was still with her, and inside her, and around her, and it held her in its gentle embrace.

 She understood what she had done just now.

 She knew she had done it to protect herself.

 She knew what she had done was to protect herself the last time, and the last time before last. 

 She remembered what she had done.

 She had killed her father.

 Lin, Laird Davar, had been arguing heatedly with her step-mother Malise one evening.  They rowed often, and in the last weeks before his death – _before she had killed him_ – it had occurred once every two days on average.   Most of the time it was him roaring and smashing things, and occasionally striking her, but this time she heard Balat.  She heard his voice, deep – almost like Helaran’s, for he was a man grown now – and thus felt it his duty to offer some resistance to their father.  Out of guilt that he had not done so earlier, out of the fierce admiration that all of them held for Helaran, or out of the instinct to protect what family was left, she did not know and could not guess.

 Shallan had been in Jushu’s room, measuring ether in whisky bottles, and diluting with distilled water up to the lines she had marked with paint after much painstaking measurement.   Jushu had taken off his boots and jacket and was settling on the bed.  Then they heard Malise screaming, and it was followed by a thud, and Malise’s scream stopped abruptly.  They heard Balat yelling; they heard Father’s answering bellow; they heard things smash, and they looked at each other.

 “I have a plan,” said Shallan, and this was not the first, nor the last time she had said this line.  It was not the first time or last time she had said it and made up her actions as she went along, and it was not the first or last time she had stayed and fought when her first thought had been to run.

 Jushu lent her his tartan from his linen chest, and they piled up ether bottles.  First the bottles from the bedside table, then the bottles from under the bed, and finally Jushu’s cache of rough street ether that he had hidden beneath the false bottom of his wardrobe and a small compartment under the floorboards.  She had only known about the bottles under the bed.

 They gathered up the clinking pile in the tartan and carried them downstairs, where they met Wikim on the landing.   “They’re in the parlour,” he said, and they heard Balat yelling, in pain now, not anger. 

 When they turned the handle of the parlour door, it would not open until Wikim gave it a great heave, and they saw Malise with her eyes closed, and blood dripping from her temple and down her cheek.   She was fallen over the threshold, fingers curled on the handle from the other side, and she did not move; Shallan perceived no rise and fall of breath as someone unconscious in sleep or in drift.  Jushu’s hands rose up and he covered his face and gave a queer whimper, but Shallan pushed onward, dragging the bundle of bottles. 

 Father was standing over Balat, who lay crumpled on the floor.  The heirloom claymores on their stand over the mantelpiece had been pulled down, and neither of them were in Balat’s hand.  One of them was in Father’s, and the other hand held the fireplace poker.  With a growl, Lin Davar lunged forward and brought the poker down on Balat’s leg.

 Shallan felt the comfort of apathetic nothingness when she tore Wikim’s belt dirk from his waist and sliced off the last foot of fabric on the hem of her petticoat.  She cut the tops off the ether bottles and poured the highest concentration of street ether over it. 

 “Pour four bottles of eighty-mark on the tartan when I have him on the ground,” she said to Wikim.

 And then she ran to Father and slung the circle of ether-wet fabric over his head and pulled and pulled until he was off balance, and he couldn’t breathe, until he dropped the sword and poker to clutch at the cloth over his face. 

 Those who had never been exposed to ether, or ether fumes, would be unaware of how it burned and stung the nostrils and choked the air out of the lungs when it was in its highest, undiluted concentration.  The immediate response, she knew, would have been to gasp out a breath when attacked from behind.  But with ether, one couldn’t do that – one had to hold their breath until the vapours dissipated.  And the higher the proof, the faster they went, which was why ether needed to be diluted with water for a drift longer than fifteen minutes.

 She knew what happened next.  The first gasp, followed by the searing of the throat and nostrils as the mucus linings burned away, and then the dizziness when all one breathed was ether instead of air.  Shallan had not calculated arithmetic progressionals for Father, but with the highest proof, it would not take long.  Father stumbled backward, one step, then another, and then he collapsed to the ground with Shallan still pulling her strip of linen petticoat over his face.

“Wikim, now!” she cried.

 Wikim bounded forward with the tartan; she ripped it out of his hands with savage force.  The highest concentrations of ether never lasted long – she needed more ether, before Father regained his senses.  The tartan was thick, and it had not absorbed much of the ether – drips of it rolled off the greasy lanolin impregnated wool and landed on the floor.  But it would prevent the vapours of the petticoat layer from escaping.  When she watched for Jushu, he had used a blanket over a kerchief to the same effect.

 She pressed the tartan over Father’s face, holding it down with what weight she had.  His body twitched and bucked, but he was falling into an unconsciousness beyond a frolic, beyond a drift, beyond even surgical insensibility.  This was the danger of ether, when one used it without calculating and poured it without measuring.  With an irresponsible and untrained watcher, or no watcher at all, one could end up with too much ether and not enough air, and wake up from sleep permanently addled in the mind; it could damage a person, and they would end up a drooling invalid.  None of this bothered Shallan.  Nothing bothered Shallan right now.  She considered it a blessing.

 She heard Balat moaning; she heard Jushu behind her.

“The fifty-five and enough to soak your kerchief,” she said.  “It will ease the pain.  The forty will do to clean a wound – do it after he drifts.  You must light the lamps and check for broken skin first.”

There was no way to count.  They did not own a wall clock; she had not thought to bring an hourglass from Jushu’s bed table.  Shallan resorted to singing to measure the time. 

 “Now go to sleep,” she whispered, “and drift you deep, with darkness all around you…”

It was a lullaby, one he had sung to her when she was a girl, when Mother was still alive.  Her cheeks were wet with tears; her hands were wet with ether, and the vapours surrounded her and drew her in and she knew was on the verge of a frolic. 

 “Now comes the storm,” she sang, “but you’ll be warm, and the wind will rock your basket.” 

Father’s legs stopped kicking after a while, but she held the tartan down anyway.  She poured another bottle over the tartan just to be sure.  In the end, she did not know if Father had suffocated from a lack of air, or if he had drowned from too much ether.  But it didn’t matter; he was dead.

 They dragged his body to the Loch, wrapped in Jushu’s tartan.  It was the traditional send-off for a Scottish man – how strangely convenient it was.  It was even more convenient that it had been soaked in ether, and they had many more bottles left.  They poured it over him and lit it on fire – it caught quite easily and burned with merry blue flames – and they went back the manor, and then sent out for a surgeon for Balat. 

 The vapours dissipated eventually.  There were no bloodstains.  It was all very clean and neat.

 It had been easy, incredibly easy, for Shallan to excise the whole ordeal from her mind.

 Until now.

 She remembered it, and remembered a great many things besides, and she saw things she had not seen because she had not wanted to see.

 Kaladin.  He spoke truths to her, and she had brushed them off because part of her had _wanted_ to be the victim.  She accepted those marks on her soul as a part of her, out of guilt of what she had done – she had seen herself as a murderess, and cursed besides.  Why had she wanted to be the victim? 

 Because she was afraid. 

 She, in essence, was timid and non-confrontational and cowardly.  She did not like to be the first to speak; she detested criticism and correction; she liked to be seen as likeable because she thought approval was the only measure of her worth.  It was all insecurity.  She let others guide her, and choose her path; she accepted how they mapped her future, for if they took care of it, they were responsible – the bad things she did were not her responsibility.  It had been simple enough to place herself in the position of the victim of circumstance.

 Shallan wanted other people to absolve her of her sins, but perversely, she had been too afraid to tell them – afraid of what answer they would give her.  She had been trapped in the stasis of a Damnation of her own creation.  She became aware that there was no-one to answer for her actions except herself – and forgiveness came from within.

 Father was dead by her hands.  Two men had died this week, shot and stabbed but finished off through other means.  She almost laughed at how inefficient she was at killing.  It was hardly the mark of a seasoned killer.

 If she hadn’t done it, she would be dead.  That was truth.

 She was not a good person, or a bad person.  She was just a person.  That was truth.

 Guilt and fear could rule a person’s life, until there was no room for anything else.  She did not want her life consumed by it.  She wanted more than that.  There existed more than that, and she had felt it for the first time in years, however briefly, this week.  That was truth.

 Loch Davar could never be her home again.  That was the final truth.

 Forgiveness and peace; they were twined together for her; they were prelude to healing and recovery.  Shallan felt empty inside, but it wasn’t the bleak and empty nothing of despair.  It was a cleansing and expectant emptiness: she was a vessel, and she had been broken, and the dark, tarry corruption that had been hidden inside for years and years had spilled out all at once.  The pieces were still there, and they could be put back together – different, of course, since it could never be the same again – but she could be whole again.  If she wanted it.

 Shallan turned the bloody knife over and over in her hands.  She had picked the knife blades out at random, but this was the one with the three diamonds stamped clearly on the tang. 

 How very strange life was. 

 How it took such twists and turns so that a blade wielded by a man in the forest became a spear that killed his comrade.  Shallan had chosen the path; she had made her decision to stand and defend herself; she had turned aside the blade’s intention and a man had impaled himself upon it.  Perhaps the blade buried in the dead man’s belly was the same one that had scored the cut against her ribs.

 Shallan thought of things as the remorseful weight of withheld emotion descended; her calm and peaceful nothingness receded to the edges of her mind and faded away.  Life returned; perfect clarity dulled, and her awareness extended only to a small circle around the leather armchair.   The wall clock counted the seconds away, and Shallan savoured the tranquil silence before reality caught her up and boxed her ears with the force of its relentless clamour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There is something within them that requires air" - basically, it's mitochondria, and they need it to break apart ATP for energy. Animalcules is the old fashioned word for "cells". And blood is actually a mix of liquid, gas, and solid. I guess Kaladin forgot how to centrifuge.  
> Adolin and Jakamav - in this AU, Adolin hasn't discovered what a backstabbing toffee-noser Jak is. And the girls are Adolin's groupies, invited by Navani the queen manipulator.  
> "Kaladin’s opinion of young ladies" - Shallan still doesn't see that he is crushing on her. At this point, she doesn't see why anyone would like her. She is pretty self-centered and doesn't consider until now that Kaladin and Adolin may have love lives that have nothing to do with her, and that she doesn't know about.  
> On Kabsal - I wanted him to come off kind of creepy, like Mraize. He thinks Shallan is cute, and doesn't want to hate her since her father did give them a lot of money that he mortgaged their estate for. But he is still a fanatic devoted to his special club, and that is his number one priority.  
> When did Shallan become MacGyver? - You have to remember she doesn't know how to fight with standard weapons, she's a creative person, and she reads a lot of things in books and has a good memory. It’s the same with SA Shallan, who is pretty good with thinking on her feet. See that time she snuck into Amaram’s house.  
> Swine's feathers - IRL Swedish military tactic in the 1600's. Soldiers stuck daggers on the ends of their muskets, before they were officially called bayonets. They also stuck knives on their shooting tripods so they could hold off cavalry while reloading.  
> Shallan and her father - you were probably waiting for a long time to find out how that happened. There's no poison, and they sold the necklace earlier in their AU, so Shallan uses what she has.  
> On Shallan's character development - Shallan is starting to let go of repression and denial. She felt guilty the whole time that she was personally responsible for every bad thing that happened, because she deserved it, because she is a bad person. I feel it's more satisfying when she learns to do it on her own instead of being nudged into it by a spren.


	16. XVI

The first indication that reality had returned was the sound of voices in the corridor outside the open the door of the retiring room.

 “I gave Adolin plenty of choice,” said the first voice.  Shallan recognised it after some seconds as Lady Navani, the Queen Dowager.  Her voice sounded very different when it wasn’t tinged with the cold imperiousness of royal authority.

 “Your choice, Navani,” the second voice replied.  “Not his.”  It was a deep voice, almost gruff, but refined in its accents; the words were spoken softly, and if his manner could not be described as kindly, it was nevertheless coloured with warmth.  There was an obvious affection between him – the Prince Kholinar – and his sister-by-marriage, the Queen Dowager.

 “I do not understand why you insist on – on choice!” she murmured.  “It is a luxury we can little afford.”

“A commanding officer does not deny his subordinates what he does not deny himself.  I had my choice – and you had yours.”

 “The circumstances were simpler, back then.  I—”

_“—Do you smell that?”_

 “What is it?”

 “Fluids … and gunpowder.  Stay behind me; I shall investigate.”

 Shallan heard booted feet crunch on broken glass; she heard the tinkle as shards of smashed wineglasses and brandy snifters were kicked aside.  It was dark in the retiring room compared to the well-lit halls outside; there were only three lamps lit at the very end of the room.

 “Whoever is there!” called the Prince Kholinar.  “Present yourself slowly.”

 Shallan sighed and slid out of the armchair, her handle-less knife gripped with one shaking hand.  She could present herself, but she was hardly presentable in her stained underdress. 

 “Your Highness,” she said, stepping out from behind the armchair.  She could see the Prince silhouetted in the doorway.  He held out a pistol with a firm grip; one hand was on the stock, and the other was braced underneath to hold the gun steady when it kicked.  Shallan knew all too well how hard a gun could kick.

 “ _You_ — the girl.  Lady Shallan?”  The muzzle of the gun did not drop.

 “Yes.”  She curtsied, her knife still in hand.  She clutched it fiercely so that her trembling would not show.  “Do you recognise the sign of three diamonds, Highness?  Adolin once said you’d warned him of foreign saboteurs.  I imagine they were somehow invited to his Feast.” 

 “They — here?” He was silent for some time, and then the point of the gun fell and he tucked it away into his regimental frock coat.  “Child, what have you done?  What is this?”

 “They are the same people who want what Jasnah knows.  They came after me – they wanted someone to use against her, Highness,” said Shallan, words tumbling out.  They were true words, but it was not the whole truth.  She did not intend to share the fruits of Jasnah’s research without Jasnah’s presence – it was something of a scholar’s grasping and close-mouthed secrecy, she knew.  One should never reveal research before it was published under one’s name: every scholar was endlessly paranoid of plagiarists.

 Prince Dalinar and Lady Navani entered the room; the Dowager grimaced as she stepped through broken glass in her heeled slippers.  Shallan was now very aware of her state of indecency, and her blood-spattered bare feet; she could tell that the soles of her feet would be red.

 Navani gasped when she saw the body on the carpet in front of the sofa.  The two broken billiard cues stuck out at odd angles, like the wings of a perching dragonfly; the sleeves were still rolled up to reveal the tattoo of three diamonds.  Dalinar twitched when he came to the body; his hand automatically reached for his holstered pistol.  He turned his gaze to her, and looked her up and down with inscrutable deliberation; his eyes must have adjusted to the gloom.

 “Oh — _child_ ,” cried Navani, hands clasped in horror under her drooping lace sleeves.  Her voice – did the Dowager tremor in her speech?  “Jasnah brought you to us – to protect you.   I did not see it – I did not think her fears were legitimate – I had thought she was working for her own aggrandisement.  And now I am proven wrong, and I am truly sorry.”

 Dalinar nudged the body with a foot.  “Are these – pool cues?” he said.  “One in the back, followed by one in the front.  You _are_ meticulous.”

 “Yes,” said Shallan, suddenly hesitant.  She was well aware of what she had done, but she did not want to discuss it.  Not until she had had some more time to herself, to draw, and to arrange her fragmented thoughts into a meaningful narrative.  “I had no gun.  And Adolin and Doctor Kaladin and I came across some other saboteur assassins – in the Kholinshire Forest a few days ago.  They collected a number of knives—” here Shallan shuffled to the billiards table and ducked under it; she returned with her bodice and dance card and the box of knives; she placed the first two items on the covered table, and held the box open to Dalinar.  “I remembered where they put them, and used them.  Some of them had the sign of three diamonds.”  She showed him the marked knife blade.

 Dalinar took the blade and his lips thinned when he saw the dried blood crusted to its edge; it flaked, brown and dusty, onto his fingers.  He dropped it back into the box.  “I expect Adolin to give me a full accounting of this last week.”  His eyes met hers; she looked down and away.  “Whatever has been done was done out of necessity, child.  I do not think any less of you.  Nor does Navani.”

 With one last glance at her, Prince Dalinar drew Navani aside, and they returned to the lit doorway to hold a whispered conversation to which Shallan was not privy.

 Navani soon left, and Dalinar pushed the broken sidebar cabinet out of the way and back to its original position; he stood at the doorway as guard.  Shallan could not leave the room.  She had no shoes, and the carpet was littered with broken glass, and she did not look forward to walking the guest-filled hallways in her undergarments.

 “Lady Shallan,” said Dalinar softly, his back to her.  “When Jasnah first told me of you – and her intentions – when she visited me in the City, and invited me to to-night’s Feast, I must admit I was rather wary of yet another failed scheme to secure a match with my son.

 “But you have acquitted yourself honourably to-night, beyond anyone’s expectations.  And beyond mine.”

 Shallan flushed.  “Thank you.”

 “I am impressed that, though you are Scottish and not Anglethi, you considered the King’s safety and drew the assassin away from the guests.  Loyalty to King and Country is a heavy duty for anyone to bear, and I am pleased to find it so evident in yourself.”

 “Thank you, Highness,” said Shallan.  She had not even remembered the King, but she did not contradict Prince Dalinar.  It was better that he think favourably of her.

 “I would trust that next time, you and Jasnah might not keep your confidences so close,” Dalinar said.  He lowered his voice.  “For we are all of us House Kholin; we are family.  And thus we must make the effort to stand together, so shall we all weather the storm. ”

 The storm.  Old folk takes said that the legendary storms swept in from east to west.

 “The man who – died,” said Shallan slowly, piecing her thoughts together.  “He came from the East Continent, I think.  He did not speak like an Anglethi.  His accent did not sound like any man from the Isles.”

 “No.  I have long said that they come from directly south of the Channel,” Dalinar answered.  “The wars on the Continent have been brewing for years – decades.  Have you ever heard the name _Napoleodium?”_

 “I have not,” said Shallan.  “It is not—”

 Tramping feet pounded through the halls.  Dalinar straightened at his post.  There were calls of _“Sir!”_ from a number of men approaching at speed.

 “Report!” barked Dalinar. 

 “Sir,” came the voice from outside.  Was that – Kaladin?  “Lady Navani came to us, and I summoned the guards to arrest all the Ardents.  We are currently conducting a room by room search of the House, and have men at the gate and all roads to halt any guests leaving in a hurry.”

 “Good.  Do not let there be a panic.  See to the safety of the Family.”

 “Already done, sir.  We’ve sent them all to the Family’s floor and blocked off the stairways.  Except for Adolin.  He refused.”

 Dalinar sighed.  “Have your men inspect the body.  And the girl.”

 “The girl?”

 “Jasnah’s ward.  Check for wounds and interrogate her.  Gently.  I am for the library – the map room will be headquarters from now.  See to it, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.”

 Dalinar left, and she heard him ordering men about outside; his voice receded into the distance.  Kaladin stood in the doorway; the silhouettes of a number of other men behind him.  He hesitated over the threshold, then crunched over the broken glass, medical kit bag in hand.  Men with pistols in hand followed him in, lighting the lamps and muttering when they saw the corpse in the robes of an Ardent on the carpet.

 “Shallan?” he said, with strained urgency.

 “Doctor.  I’m fine,” Shallan said.  She was cold, and her voice was tight with the effort to keep the quaver out.

 “Are you hurt?”  He now sounded more like himself, like a professional physician.  “I smell gunpowder – have you been shot?  Any cuts?”

 “No — no shots.”  She rubbed her arms; they were pimpled with chickenflesh, and she was still in her breezy underdress.  In a moment of self-consciousness, she crossed her arms over her chest.  It was likely that there was nothing to see – Shallan could not be admitted to be any degree of well-endowed – but she was the only woman in a room full of men, even if one of those men happened to be a self-appointed chaperon, one who had seen everything beneath the dress, on multiple occasions.

 “I must inspect your wound for signs of broken stitches or torn skin,” said Kaladin.  “I haven't my surgical table – the billiards table will have to do.” 

 She sighed and pulled herself onto the table.  Kaladin eyed the unlaced bodice and dance card, but he did not say anything and set his kit bag down.    Shallan began undoing her buttons with fumbling fingers.  She noticed the men – in blue regimental uniforms, but no officers’ piping or epaulets – averting their gaze when she met their eyes. 

 Shallan smelled the fumes of ether – why did he have to use it in a closed room? – and heard him scrub his hands together and shake them off, and then he pulled her unbuttoned underdress down her shoulders and she felt him prodding at her ribs. 

 “They haven’t broken – but what happened to the bandages?” he said, looking up.  “If you wanted to change them, you needn’t have done it yourself.”

 “I cut them off,” said Shallan.  “I didn’t have any ropes.”  She glanced at the body on the floor.  The men had cut the robes off and were inspecting it for hidden weapons or clues or more tattoos – she could not guess.  Kaladin turned and gazed at it very briefly; a second later, his eyes returned to hers. 

  _“Spears?”_

 “I had no gun.”

 “You could have one if you asked.  I would be more than happy to accompany you to the range here.”

 “I had presumed my well-being would be in the charge of yourself and Adolin,” said Shallan, sighing. 

 “It would be,” said Kaladin reproachfully, “if you hadn’t run off.  Next time you do run off, it would be much appreciated if you remembered to take one of us with you.  Now, get dressed.”

 Shallan pulled her dress over her shoulders; she paused when Kaladin’s eyes swept over her, and suddenly stopped.  His eyes narrowed.  “Doctor?”

 “There are burn speckles on your dress.  Turn around.”

 She did so, and she felt his warm hands on her shoulders, dragging her dress down to her waist.  Then she heard the medical bag open, and a clinking sound as he dug through it, and found his supplies.  He swabbed the back of her right arm with a low concentration of ether, and then smeared a cooling ointment, which was followed by bandage rolled around her upper arm. 

 “Will it leave a scar, Doctor?”

 “No-one will be able to tell it apart from the spots you already have.”

 “Oh, I had forgotten that I—”

 “Shallan!”  It was Adolin’s voice, from the doorway. 

 Shallan peered over Kaladin’s shoulder as he tied knots to secure the bandage.  Adolin was treading through the carpet of glass shards, holding his sleeve over his face at the smell of the leaking corpse.  She turned back and closed her eyes.  She did not want to face him after she had seen him with those – other girls.  He made her feel things she had no interest in feeling, things that clouded her thoughts and swayed decisions that she had thought were already firmly decided.  She held no eager anticipation for addressing those nascent, tender emotions that surrounded thoughts of herself and Adolin. Thoughts of herself _with_ Adolin.  Perhaps they were better off forgotten and ignored.

 Kaladin stepped away to allow her to dress herself in relative privacy.  He and Adolin wandered over to the other men stripping the corpse and rolling it onto a stretcher; they held a low conversation.  Adolin occasionally shot worried glances at her, but she turned away, and hid behind her hair, and did up her front buttons.

 After a while, Shallan finished dressing – it was only a simple underdress she wore, easily done and undone – and picked up her bodice.  She wondered how she might put it on and wear it without the laces.  It wouldn’t stay on, would it?  She heard footsteps behind her, and she did not turn around to look.  She knew who it was.

“Shallan,” said Adolin, soft and solemn, “forgive me.  Once again.  If you can.”

 Shallan squeezed her eyes shut.  She twisted the bodice between her fingers, and the boning creaked.  “There is nothing to forgive.  I do not care about your – other women,” she hissed.

 She felt heat prickle in her eyes; she took a breath to compose herself.  It did not bother her.  She could not let it.  Her emotional outburst was caused by the stress – and distress – of killing yet another man.

 He was silent.  Perhaps he was taken aback at her curt manner – women did not usually criticise the habits and actions of men, at least not this directly.  Then, finally, he spoke.  “I do not care about them either.”

 “Well,” said Shallan callously, “now we know why you’re almost an old maid.” 

 It was cruel of her, but she had been hurt to-day, and so many thoughts and memories had rushed through her in such a short time that she felt as if a part of her mind had burned through; it was hollowed out and wrung dry with no more capacity for softer things.  Hunger and pain, she was certain she was capable of discerning, but she did not think she could summon up enough for sympathy and compassion.

 “I do not care about them, because I care only for you.”  He sounded pained.  “It may have – _it has_ – taken me too long to realise that.  Perhaps it is too late; I would not be surprised.  It always happens, time and again, so I do not let myself care – it is easier that way.”  He swallowed, and searched for words.  “It would not surprise me if this time is no different.  But – what I meant – I wanted to apologise, for inviting the Ardents.”

 “The Ardents?”  Adolin’s words, earnest but disturbing personal truths, had Shallan feeling guilty for her own.  Now she felt confusion.

 “I invited them to announce the construction of a new infirmary wing for the Courtlea church.  I did not know they would be the saboteurs – that there were assassins hidden amongst them,” said Adolin.  “And I had promised two days ago that you would be spared bloodshed when you were here with us.”

 “You oughtn’t to make promises you can’t keep.”

 “So my father always says.”  Adolin choked out a forced laugh.  “I am unworthy.  I know it.  And now you do too.”

 “If you wanted to apologise for inviting the Ardents, then I forgive you for it.  The assassins would have come with or without your invitation.  They are _assassins_ , you know.  Not tea-time callers.”

 Adolin stepped closer, and rested a hand on the wooden cover of the billiards table.  Shallan glanced down at it.  His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm.  “I could have done something – something to help, anything at all.  But instead I was cavorting with girls I cared nothing about, while the one person I did care about had to – to—”

 “Had to do what had to be done,” Shallan finished.  She turned and saw that Adolin’s head was downcast; she could see the whorl of hair on the top of his head from whence the black and yellow stripes radiated.  On impulse, she patted it.  His hair was fluffy and soft.  He raised his head.  He looked – miserable.  Shallan decided that smiling suited him better.

 “And I wish you hadn’t had to,” he whispered.  “My royal uncle – the late King – died at a Feast just like this one.  My father was in his cups – and did nothing while an assassin stabbed the King and pushed him off a balcony.  The guilt afterward almost destroyed him.  He still isn’t the same as he was before.”

 “I am not dead – so you needn’t feel guilt,” said Shallan.  “You can trust me to guarantee my own safety.”

 “Perhaps you are better off without me.”

 Shallan swung her legs around and off the table.  She slid off; her skirt bunched up around her thighs and revealed a flash of pale leg.  She caught Adolin’s eyes flicking down to them, but then he looked up, and they met eye to eye.

 “Do you think you would be better off without me?” she asked.

 He did not say anything for a while, but his hand reached out and hovered over hers.  But he did not touch her; his hand dropped limply to his side.  “No,” he said.  He ran a hand through his hair distractedly, and made as if to withdraw.

 Shallan caught him by the wrist.  “If you must leave, it would be with the deepest regret.  And I have lived a life with too many regrets.”

 Adolin turned back, and his eyes shone in the lamplight.  “Is that forgiveness?”

 “There is nothing to forgive.”

 He wrapped her in his embrace, and for the first time since she had entered the retiring room, she felt warm.  It was not just the physical warmth of having his body pressed against hers, but the warmth of knowing that she did not have to be alone. For what use was finding peace and forgiveness within herself, and healing the emptiness within her, if she must have lonely emptiness around her for the rest of her life? 

 Understanding choice – that was the lesson she had learned mere hours ago.  She had chosen not to be weak, or to be a victim, or to be a murderess.  She was only a victim if she allowed herself to be, and she was only a murderess if she continued to bear the strangling, baseless guilt of her father’s death.  Perhaps it was choice, or perhaps it was all perception – but she found meaning in the choice of life before death, and strength before weakness.

 Shallan knew those words to be trite phrases torn direct from _The Way of Kings_ , but they seemed good words to live one’s life by, and made a curiously fitting frame for the fractured thoughts that she was still piecing together.  They were unoriginal words, and no doubt read and internalised by a great many young men yearning for glory in the bored tedium of a tutoring room, but here she found them unexpectedly appropriate for herself.

 If only she had known it earlier. 

 But she could not have found these truths if she had never left Loch Davar.  They would not have come to her unless she had sought them for herself.  Loch Davar was a cage in her mind where she had hidden herself away, for her own safety, never realising it was she who held the key, and that she could have ventured out any time – if she was brave enough to face the outside world.  And now she had, and she had seen truth, and it was devastating and terrible and gruesome and painful and the scars on her disfigured heart ached all the more because she had done all of it and could not deny it any longer.

 She no longer felt guilt for the things she had done, things that had been done out of what she now accepted was pure necessity – those questionable deeds had not been heaped upon her as punishment for possessing an inherently bad soul, as if she deserved it.  Her mother, in her dementia, had said those words to her, as a child. _A child._ They could not be true.  And she would not accept them.

 She had seen that the terrible world had good people, who, just perhaps, balanced out the terrible people.  These good people were not good all the way through – they were more fittingly called _decent people_ – and they were just people, like her.  They had in them honesty, and wisdom, and kindness, and that was enough.  It wasn’t goodness or badness inherent in one’s soul, or the nobility and Grace of high or low blood that defined a person as a decent sort, or a bad one.  It was the choices one made. 

 Adolin pulled away eventually, and when Shallan looked at his crisp regimental uniform and compared it to her bloodstained underdress and bare feet, she almost laughed.

 “I need a bath,” she said.

 “Shall I walk you to your room?” he asked.  He looked her over and noticed her abandoned bodice on the billiards table, and blushed.  “You oughtn’t to go alone – there could be other assassins.”

 “I have no shoes.  I do not relish the prospect of walking over broken glass – it is no trial by fire, but I am sure I have already passed my test of courage to-day.  Perhaps you might carry me.”

 “Oh — of course,” Adolin stammered, and then he held out his arms and hoisted her up.  His boots scattered the glass with a chiming tinkle, and he carried her out to the end of the hallway – there were small shards of glass on the floor outside the doorway, brought out with the soldiers who had collected the assassin’s body.  He put her down gently.

 “Adolin,” said Shallan, peeking around the corner, “might I borrow your coat?  I shouldn’t like to be seen by the guests in nothing but my shift.  It’s cold – and I haven’t my bodice.”

 Adolin shrugged off his coat, and draped it over her shoulders.  Shallan slipped her arms into the sleeves – they dangled over her hands – and tugged the lapels over the dried bloodstain on her front.  The coat, which stopped at Adolin’s knees, went almost to her ankles.  The white lace of her underdress peeped out from underneath. 

 “Do I look less of a mess now?” she said, smiling up at Adolin.

 “Your Feast dress looked nice; this is just as nice – but I think you look nice regardless of what you wear,” he replied. 

 They walked hand in hand, passing guests in the foyer who stared at them and tutted to each other and shook their heads – she heard the words _‘standards of decency these days_ _’_ and _‘impatience of youth_ _’_.   Adolin was blushing, and she was certain her own faced matched.

 “Adolin!” called a voice behind them. 

 They stopped and turned.  It was the young man she had seen in the ballroom, with green eyes and a stylishly cut dress coat and lace neckcloth with an emerald stickpin.   Another young man caught up with him; he adjusted the hang of his cuffs and looked them over with a dubious eye.

 “Jakamav,” said Adolin.  He gripped her hand fiercely. 

 “We’re going through to dinner,” Jakamav said, giving Shallan a head-to-toe inspection.   Shallan pulled the oversized coat tighter around herself.  “Will you join us?”

 “I’m afraid I have other business that must be seen to,” said Adolin quietly.

 “Well,” said Jakamav casually, “I’m sure you can take care of it quickly—” he smirked in Shallan’s direction, “—and join us when you’re finished.”

 “My business is none of yours.”

 Jakamav sighed and turned to Shallan.  “Being seen with Adolin isn’t good for one’s reputation these days.  If you tire of the quaint country life, come to the City – Toral here will ensure you won’t leave disappointed.”  He nudged the man next to him, and they grinned at one another – and at Shallan.  Toral winked.

 “I obviously don’t look like I care about my reputation,” said Shallan coldly.  “As you can probably tell.   And I can tell quite obviously that you do not care about respectability – and you look it.  You should know that the floral pattern lace on your neckcloth is the débutante’s traditional.  You might pay a call on your couturier to demand your money back.”

 Toral snorted; Jakamav reddened.

 “There’s no accounting for taste,” said Jakamav, “not that I should expect you to understand.”  He turned from them and strode away.  Toral looked back apologetically.

 They heard him whisper.  _“So Adolin has got himself a girl at last.  About time.”_

  _“I had always thought him impotent,”_ Jakamav replied, loud enough that he wanted them to overhear.

  _“I should keep my peace unless he comes to dinner in ten minutes and begs your advice.”_

 Adolin squeezed her hand very hard.  Shallan tugged at it.  He loosened his grip.  “I should call them out for — that,” he said hotly.

 Shallan laughed, and turned to him, resting a hand on his cheek.  “They’re all just jealous.”

 He was silent for a brief moment, and a grin split his face; he hugged her, burying his face into her hair.  “I did say that once, didn’t I?”

 “I do listen,” said Shallan, smiling.  “Wouldn’t you be jealous of anyone privileged with basking in my innate Grace?”  She plucked at the front of her bloodstained dress.  “I mean, just look at me!  I’m honestly surprised that I don’t wake up every day jealous of myself!”

 “Oh, Shallan,” Adolin chuckled, and took up her hand once more. 

 They chattered about inane things and ignored the curious stares of passers-by, until they reached the landing and Shallan had to direct him to the guest wing where her bedchamber was situated.  Apparently, the guests and Family quarters were on opposite ends of the House to discourage the occurrence of tarnished reputations.  Shallan had been seen wandering the halls in her undergarments and the coat and the company of a man who was not her husband; her reputation had already been tarnished, and she could not care to protect something that no longer existed.

 They reached the bathing chamber, and Shallan opened the door.  Adolin followed her in hesitantly, looking around at the tiles and the pictures of stylised towers in frames of blue and gilt.  

 “Am I allowed to be in here?”

 “There’s no maid – so who else will fill the tub?” said Shallan, pointing to the pump handles by the porcelain bathtub.  “I was burned on my right shoulder so it would take me half a day to do it with my left.” 

 Shallan sat on the maid’s stool and watched eagerly as Adolin unbuckled his side-sword and laid it on the stack of towels.  He rolled his sleeves up his tanned forearms and worked the pump handle – the hot water one first, and then the cold water.  Damp steam roiled out of the faucet and the tub and clung to his shirt, outlining the corded muscle of his shoulders and upper arms.  It was a shame he still had on his waistcoat, thought Shallan, enjoying the view immensely. 

 Shallan shed the uniform coat and began undoing the buttons of her underdress.

 Adolin looked up, and said, “I’ve finished filling the tub—”   His voice choked off with a strained gurgle; he spun on his heel with military precision until his back was presented to her.  “Ah.  I should go now.  Yes.  It would probably be a good idea.”

 “Haven’t you ever seen a lady disrobed?” asked Shallan, amused.  She could have been shyer about it, and she would have been if she were still at Loch Davar.  But she had grown used to being unclothed in front of her maid, and Jasnah, and Kaladin too, now that she thought of it. 

 “Um.  No?” 

 She dropped her bloodstained dress to the floor, and walked over to the bathtub.  Adolin shifted about to keep his back to her.  It was marvellously endearing.   She poured scented oils and powdered soap and a whole jar of dried flower petals into the water. 

 “Not even all those – other girls?  Before you met me, of course,” said Shallan, as she slipped off her pantalets and stepped into the hot water.  She was curious – and felt an unwelcome sense of dread about receiving an answer to that question.  It was something she had never thought about; she had always told herself she didn’t – _wouldn’t_ – care about what Adolin got up to in his own time, and the girls he went through one per month in the City didn’t matter as long as it was she he chose in the end. 

 “No,” he answered promptly.  And then a queer note entered his voice.  “Have you?”

 “I’m looking at a lady disrobed right now, Adolin.”

 He was blushing.  She could tell it without looking at him; she knew him well enough by now.  She splashed the water and giggled. 

 “I meant,” here he spoke tentatively, _“gentlemen_.  Disrobed.”

 “Why, yes.  Four of them.”

  _“What?”_   He whirled around red-faced, saw her laughing in a tub full of bubbles, and spun back so he did not have to see her in her state of indecency.

 “I have four brothers,” Shallan said, and splashed about to cover her stifled laughter at his reaction.   Was that – could that be _jealousy_ , of all things?  “In Scotland, men wear skirts, and there is a traditional technique to put them on that does not appeal to the dignified sensibilities of Anglethis.  The trick is to do it laying on your back.”  She paused, then continued.  “And it’s traditional not to wear anything underneath.”

 “You needn’t tell me anything more; I think I have heard quite enough,” said Adolin.  “I should go down to dinner.  They must have already started it by now.  Unless they are still toasting.”

 “It has only been something like twenty minutes,” remarked Shallan.  “Your little friends will no doubt be waiting for tales of your daring exploits.  But I suppose if you are hungry, by all means, go down.  Leave your sword so I might be prepared for assassination attempt – I imagine I could drown a man in the bathtub, but it would be drearily tedious.”

 “No,” said Adolin, coming to a decision.  “I shall wait outside the door, then.”  He took up his side-sword, and with one quick glance at her – she pretended not to notice it – he pulled open the door and shut it with a firm click.

 When Shallan was finished, she wrapped one towel around her waist and another over her shoulders – there was no maid to bring fresh clothes, and she did not want to put on the bloodstained dress that she had dropped into the linen basket on the floor.  She took a breath and opened the door.

 Adolin was outside, holding his sword above his head; his eyes were closed.  They flicked open, and he lowered the sword slowly; he re-sheathed it in its scabbard with a soft _snick_.

 “Sword forms — Ironstance,” he explained.  “I haven’t had much opportunity to practice these last few days...”  He trailed off.  “Are — are you naked?”

 Shallan laughed and tossed him his coat.  “Here’s a little secret for you,” she said, and then leaned forward to whisper into his ear.  _“We’re all naked under our clothes.”_

 Adolin flushed and unrolled his sleeves; he pushed them down and straightened the cuffs.  “Shall I walk you to your room now?”

 Shallan led the way down the hall, putting a swing to her hips in the way Madame Tyn had taught her.  She had always thought it a ridiculous idea that men might be attracted to the way one walked, but the governess had just waved her reed switch and beckoned her to do another round of the gallery with a book on her head.  Shallan had never thought it would ever be of use – she had been under the assumption that the exercise was a waste of time which could be more productively spent on reading or drawing.

 Shallan opened the door.  “Will you come in?”

 “But there’s no chaperon.  It’s indecent—”

 “I have read _The Way of Kings,_ and it doesn’t say anything about accompanying unaccompanied ladies to their rooms,” Shallan said, trying to keep her face serious. 

 It was difficult to keep her expression level – she did not want to scare Adolin away; he was much different than Kaladin in this: Kaladin would have barged in, invitation or no.  Adolin needed to be led gently – and she remembered Jasnah saying that it could be done by convincing him it was of his own volition.  She brushed that thought away.  She had looked forward to an instance where she could speak to Adolin without chaperons, without other pressing duties – courting as she wished they could have done from the beginning.  But here she was, with her reputation irrevocably tarnished, and she could not care that she was indulging in what society deemed licentious behaviour.  Well, she had killed a man only hours ago, and whatever society made of that, it could not be any worse.

 “There was that bit—”

 “I’m not a courtesan, and you’re not on duty,” she interjected.  “Unless you think I am a courtesan.  In that case, I demand payment for that eyeful I’m sure you managed in the bathing room.”

 “You’re not a courtesan,” Adolin conceded, and then he glanced both ways down the hallway before she let him in and closed the door behind him. 

 “Society ladies would say differently,” said Shallan, humming, as she went to the wardrobe to fetch her dressing gown and a clean shift.  She kept the door open and hid behind it to change.  “And after to-night, there might be some truth in it.  My reputation, I’m afraid, is in shambles.”

 “It doesn’t have to be.  It can be fixed.”

 “By taking the waters, I suppose.  Or perhaps a Grand Tour – Jasnah has wanted to travel the Continent for some time.”

 “No.  I can fix it.  Am I not Duke?”

 Shallan tied closed her dressing gown.  She shut the wardrobe door.  “What do you mean by that?”

 “I — I caused this.  Your reputation can be salvaged, Shallan,” he said.  He looked at her, and he opened his mouth, and spoke three words that clanged down like bars on a prison door.  They were words that could not be taken back, serious words of serious intention that she had not expected to hear, not so soon – and in the part of mind that saw herself as homely and graceless – not to her.

 Shallan’s hands trembled.  “I do not want it,” she said slowly, “if the offer is made out of obligation and nothing else.”

 “I feel — responsible.  But it is not obligation that impels me to make the offer.  There _is_ something else,” he said, fingers tugging nervously at his cuffs.  And then he spoke three more words that soared out on wings of hope and honesty, soft words with a terrible implacable force behind them; they battered against her one after the other and she almost cringed back from their frightening sincerity.

_Three words._

 The words were completely unambiguous.

 They were words that fluttered with light and hope and warmth, but could easily disguise chains and shackles that one was not aware of – until it was too late.  She wanted all that was represented by the former, but the latter – she was petrified; she recognised it as the bonds that connected her to Loch Davar, the reason why she had called it home when she had been so afraid to leave its bounds – when she had been absolutely miserable there.  But those bonds were ones that formed around her, so slowly and malevolently; they had covered her mouth and her eyes, so she did not even know they were there until they were suddenly gone, and she could not speak of or understand their existence … until now.

 He was silent, and she was silent; the silence stretched on as Adolin waited for her response with desperate anticipation, and Shallan tried to think of a response that would neither encourage nor deny him in his sentiments.  She did not know what to say – the words he most wanted to hear would have burned with their deceit when they left her lips.  She did not feel what he felt to the same degree as he did.  She felt something ... but it could not be named with _that_ word, and her mind assured its own protection by searing it out of her when it entered via her ears.

 “Shallan,” Adolin said finally, “do you feel affection for another?  I could not blame you if you did.”

 That woke her from a downward plunge into her myriad of prepared responses.  _“What?”_

 ”I admit I did not see it until the ball – when you danced three sets with Kal.  When he looked at you, there was true affection, and I felt myself – extraneous.”

 “Are you implying – me and _Kaladin?”_

 “Yes.  He is a good man – he is cleverer than I, and sharper than most.  My father treats him as a son – more son than Renarin sometimes, perhaps.  If you and he have an understanding—”

 “We don't.  He has never given any indication of his feelings for me.  He thinks me a nuisance!”

 “Have you not ... kissed him?” Adolin suddenly looked guilty; he could not meet her eyes.

 “No,” Shallan replied.  “Why?  Have you?”

  _“No!”_ Adolin flushed, and he bit his lip whilst searching for an explanation.  “I kissed Danlan.  Or Danlan kissed me – she cornered me in the hallway – and when she pressed against me, all I could think about was how I rathered it be you, and when she kissed me, there was – nothing.  I felt nothing from it, just her lips on mine.  And I realised afterward that it was because I did not care for her, and she did not care about me.”

 “Oh,” said Shallan. 

 Things between herself and Kaladin were beginning to make more sense – how it had been a long time since he had been deliberately antagonistic in his treatment of her; how they played verbal racquets for the fun of the game rather than the satisfaction of winning; how he had been nothing but understanding when she revealed glimpses of the terrible person she had long been ashamed of.  She had thought they were becoming mutual, perhaps friendly, acquaintances – and she had never considered that he might possibly feel anything for anyone, let alone she, of all people.

 “Then do you – accept my proposal?”

 “I do not feel what you do.  Not to the same extent.” 

 That was a truth.  She could not lie to him about that; it would have hurt both of them in the end if she did.  And she did not want to hurt Adolin if she did not have to; Jasnah’s self-centredness in her scheming was now monstrously repugnant to her.  It was ruthless, and coldly brutal, and though Shallan saw the importance of Jasnah’s Great Purpose, she could not toss someone aside just to further the plan.  The world, she thought, was not worth saving when good people were hurt in the process.  The good people were what made it worth preserving; if they did not exist, she would happily stand aside and let the Almighty bring on his chaos and destruction and his final Ending.

 “Do you think perhaps you might could – one day, given time – whatever it takes, I shan’t begrudge you—”  Adolin was hesitant and halting; it appeared to take much effort for him to say such intimately personal things aloud.

 “Yes.  I could.” 

 And that was a truth.  She did not think she would have been able to say it; she would not have allowed herself to – if she had been asked just yesterday.  But something had changed within her, and she did not feel the torn and divided loyalties as she had felt so very recently.  It was enormously freeing to know that.

 “Oh — that is all I wanted to hear – it is more than I expected,” he said, and he caught her around the waist – she gasped – and he swung her around and around, pressing exuberant kisses to her cheeks and nose and throat.  He whispered those three words again, the words that fell heavily into place from above, like a latch on a cage.

_“Be my Duchess.”_

 “A proposal only, then – nothing permanent?” she found herself asking.

 “A proposal – an engagement – a betrothal.  Only a promise, and not a contract,” said Adolin, his arms around her holding her close.  She rested her head against his shoulder.

 “For now?”

 “For as long as you like – for as long as you need.” 

 Suddenly the latch had no lock – there was no key either – and it was simply a door.  A door that she could enter and leave, and peer outside on occasion, and come back inside when it was raining, when she wanted to draw without getting her pages wet.  And it was not a cage, so it could not be called a prison.  It was a house, a House, and perhaps one day a home.  A place where she did not have to be alone, or miserable: it could be a place where friends awaited her arrival with fond welcome, and upon her departure, looked forward to her return with eager anticipation.

 “Then I accept.”

 Adolin gave her an enthusiastic squeeze, and she raised her arms up and twined them around his shoulders.  “Shallan, Shallan, _Shallan_ , _”_ he murmured, nuzzling against her neck.  “Oh, I am acting the fool, but you have made me so very happy.  I had not imagined it would be – quite like this.  It is strange, passing strange, but I shouldn’t mind growing used to this.  In fact, I think I would very much enjoy it.”

 Shallan was more subdued.  Of course, she was glad to see Adolin in such high spirits, but she was more reserved in her own feeling.  She had no uneasiness for the prospect of Adolin’s company, she knew – it was just that doing so, at least for the long term, had with it attached a number of responsibilities, and expectations, and _duties_.  She had wanted to be the Duchess, before she had even met Adolin, or come to Kholinar Court, but now that there was a good chance of its becoming a distinct reality, it was nothing but intimidating.

 A new name, a new home, a new family, a new life – changes all around her; they surrounded her, and carried her away on a torrent of commitment and obligation.  She did not loathe change if it happened to be progress, but she longed for the touch of the familiar – something recognisable, something routine; it would help her to hold onto the part of her identity that was purely Shallan. 

 Shallan pushed away from Adolin’s arms and opened the vanity drawer.  She set the roll of brushes and her sketchbook on the table, along with her pen box. 

 Adolin stepped in beside her, and flicked open the button closure of the brush roll.  “I had hoped you liked them.”

 “I didn’t know they were a gift.  My maid brought them in one day.  The day before – that incident in the forest.”

 “I thought you might refuse if I gave them to you directly, as a courting gift.  They were my mother’s,” he said, and slipped a brush out.  “My father’s gift to her.”

 It pained her; it was painful to perceive the depth of affection that Adolin felt for her – that she did not, for now at least, return.  He had felt more of it, and had felt it much earlier than she had.  For one with such a notorious reputation as a rake and a flirt, Adolin really did wear his heart on his sleeve.   He was open and expressive, and Shallan knew him well enough to read his face with ease; she saw that he was emotive, and every emotion was etched upon his features.  He could not hide himself like Kaladin did, or as she herself did.  It was frightfully intimate.  But she liked him all the more for his honesty.

 Shallan brought her sketchbook to the bed, and slid open the lid of her pen box.  She flipped through the pages, past the old drawings, past the empty section where a whole bound signature full of copied mural sketches had been cut out of it, past the half dozen folded up sheets of calculated arithmetic progressionals, until she found a fresh page.  She started tracing out ovals and lines – her impressions of the guests she had met in the ballroom.

 The bed dipped slightly as Adolin settled his weight on it next to her.  She felt his fingers twitch a lock of her hair over her shoulder, and something pulled at her hair.  She turned around to look.

 Adolin had the silver hairbrush in his hand, and was running it through her hair – until he found a tangled knot.   He stopped when he met her eyes.

 “My maid usually does that,” she said.

 “I do not mind doing it.  I do it for the horses – and I find it relaxing.  But the grooms, like your maid, would probably think it beneath me.”

 “I sometimes think you are more familiar with horses than women.”

 “Sometimes I think that too.”

 They were silent as Shallan sketched her thoughts in the comforting blankness of her artist’s trance; it was easier to sort her thoughts and emotions out, so she could draw from pure visual memory.  She knew Adolin was looking over her shoulder, and emptying her mind allowed her to feel less self-conscious – people who watched her draw often asked busybody questions, but Adolin said nothing.  He just brushed her hair and gently untangled knots whenever he found them.

 After a while, Adolin spoke.  “Will you tell me of Scotland?”

 Shallan blinked; the pencil fell still.  “Why?” she asked.  “What do you want to know about it?”

 “I want to hear about the place you call home,” he said.  The mattress bounced as he shifted his weight.  “I do not think there is any place I could call that.”

 “Home is not always a place.  It is people, and feelings, and sounds and tastes and memories.”

Adolin was silent.

 “Very well,” said Shallan.  She could talk about this now, with him.  It was not a personal prying question.  These were safe memories, the happy ones.  “Loch Davar is a manor house by the lake,” she began, rolling the pencil between her fingers.  Adolin resumed his brushing.  “With miles of bog and hills on all sides, with little villages and farms that mostly grow oats and cows and sheep.

 “I spent most of my childhood rambling the hillsides – it’s beautiful when you climb to the top and watch the sun burst through the clouds onto the heather.  Like a purple carpet for a King, only it was made by the Almighty, and just for me. 

 “My brother Helaran brought me paints and inks and paper, and my brother Balat taught me to ride on those wee Loch ponies with the shaggy hair that sticks to your tartans and gets in your luncheon bannock no matter what you do.  I would go out with my brother Jushu to the little hidden valleys between the hills, and we would play make-believe, and read storybooks aloud. 

 “He would pretend to be a knight, and I a princess, and we would fight the bog monsters together.  And afterward, I would paint our imaginary battles, and he would keep all of them folded in his sporran.  In the evenings, he would show the family after dinner, and share our grand adventures in front of the fire…”

 Shallan recounted these memories of her childhood, when Loch Davar had been perfect and bright and happy, and Adolin laughed and sighed at all the right places.  They were the days when the manor house’s roof didn’t leak, and even in the coldest darkest winters, joy and pleasure could still be found in slides over the frozen lake, and whimsically shaped treacle sweets poured into the snow, and the cakes and candles of Yule celebrations that blasphemously flaunted Vorin tradition.

 When she was finished, Adolin said, “You sound different when you speak of home.  Your accent changes.”

 “My governess would chide me for my lapse.”

 “I find it charming – I like it very much.”  His fingers trailed over the skin at the back of her neck.  They were warm, and they brushed lightly against her and lifted away.  “I like everything about you.  And Scotland – it sounds wonderful.  I wish I had a childhood like that.”

 “Did you not get to go out and play?  I thought that it was what all children did.”

 “No,” said Adolin wistfully.  “Not much of it – not enough to know what I had been missing.  I began my military training when I was six years old.”

 Shallan tapped her pencil against her open sketchbook; she turned a page, and started a new drawing.  “Drummer boys and courier light-weights and midshipmen aren’t taken up until they’re at least twelve.”

 “Things are different when you are born in a position that requires privilege to match duty.”

 “Will you tell me of your childhood?”

 “I suppose I should – since you have,” said Adolin, and he resumed brushing her hair while he described a lonely childhood with a distant father who was always away and abroad, overseeing one campaign or another, and a foreign mother who struggled to express her thoughts in the Anglethi tongue, who preferred the company of her foreign waiting ladies when her sons had been taken away for their education.

 He spoke of military training, and even when he was playing, all of the games were structured exercise meant to improve his skills in some manner or other.  There were no friends or playmates, only subordinates and associates, and every day was bound up in little blocks of time, tied together with a great list of expectations, duties, and standing orders, so that he forgot what it felt like to make a decision for himself, and the prospect became so unfamiliar as to be terrifyingly inconceivable.

 “When I was sixteen,” he said, “I was the youngest member ever to reach the leader-board at the Kholinar Duelling Club.  Then the King was killed, and the Pact was formed, and I was dragged from the clubs and salons of the City to the battlefields of the marshlands.

 “I saw battle, and I led charges for the first time, when I was seventeen.  The year after that was my debut into Society and my aunt foisted girl after girl on me to secure a match.  I was not in a particularly – _receptive_ – mood then, and I found ways to reject them all, and it became a pattern; it soon happened that I was rid of them without even trying, no matter if I wanted to know them more or not.

 “I thought it was something wrong with all of them, but after five years – well, I suppose it began to gnaw on me.  Then I met you, and I saw there was nothing wrong with you – that everything was because there was something wrong with me, and I hadn’t even known what it was—”

 Shallan snapped the covers of her sketchbook shut.  She twisted around so quickly that Adolin dropped the hairbrush onto the carpet in his surprise; she leaped forward and pushed him down onto the bed and sat on his stomach and pinned his shoulders to the mattress with her knees.  He wheezed a bit but made no move to push her off.  She crossed her arms.

 “No!  There is nothing wrong with you!” she snarled.  “And if there is, it is only because you think it.  Whatever it is – fear, shame, weakness – whatever you call it, you have a choice not to accept it.  Turn it away – find peace within you, and you can leave it all behind.  And no-one will ever have to know that it existed at all.”

 Adolin lifted his head and gazed at her; he dropped back into the pillows with a long sighing breath.  “Oh, Shallan.  Will you help me?”

 “Yes.  Of course.”

 “If only I could have found you earlier—”

 “A wise book once said that it is not the destination that matters—”

 “—But the journey.  My father quotes that wise book all the time.”

 They laughed, and Shallan slid herself off him and rolled aside, until Adolin caught her around the waist and pulled her back.  They lay together on the bed, and she rested her head on his chest; he stroked her hair and their legs were twined together – it was not very comfortable as her feet were bare, and he still had on his polished riding boots.  No doubt they would leave brown streaks of dirt on the bed-covers, but at least it gave him a reasonable defence against the tarnishing of his own reputation.

 Shallan stared up at the velvet canopy drapes as she had done many mornings, and wondered if Adolin’s own bed had a canopy.  She did not think soldiers would have them, because they woke at dawn and had no need for shutting out the sunlight like a lady did, when she required her beauty sleep to recover from a long night of dancing with handsome gentlemen.  Shallan was suddenly reminded that she had never even got to dance with Adolin. 

 Minutes passed, and each enjoyed the peaceful, silent company of the other; no words needed to be said, because they knew all the words already. 

 “I should like to visit Scotland someday,” said Adolin softly. 

 Shallan stirred, and lifted her head off his chest; she moved across to the pillow next to his.  They stared at each other; his hand held hers, and she thought that if she woke up like this one morning, she should not mind it so much.  Mornings could not be considered invariably dreadful and dreadfully invariable if now and then one had good company – someone who did not fault her for drooling on occasion.  It was strange, but pleasantly so, to meet eye to eye whilst horizontal.  It was the same view as it was when they were standing, she supposed, but she did not have to crane her neck backward to do so. 

 “Haven’t you ever been?”

 “We have an estate in the north – near the McHanavar lands, I think.  It’s a glorified hunting lodge, and I have never been one for hunting.  Cousin Elhokar is High King of the clan chiefs – I imagine we have a Family tartan too, but I have never worn it.”

 Shallan took in this information.  Then she smiled.  “You are Duke.”

 “Yes?”  Adolin looked puzzled.

 “If you have a tartan, you are equivalent to clan chief.” 

 “Is that amusing to you?”

 “Yes,” she said, and she laughed.  “It means you are The McKholin!”

 “Shouldn’t you address me as _Your Chiefliness?”_

 “The proper style is Himself.”

 “Himself?”

 “Yes.”

 “Heralds,” Adolin said, chuckling.  “Scots are strange people.”

 “I thought you said I was charming.”

 “You are.”  He gripped her hand tightly.  “It is what makes you so Shallan-y.”

 “Hm.”

 Adolin dropped her hand and pushed himself up onto his elbows.   He looked at her, and she looked at him, and he did not say anything – he just bent his head and brushed a kiss against her cheek.  His hand rose up and stroked against the line of her jaw, and then he kissed her on the lips. 

 Shallan kissed him back, and undid the ribbon waist-tie of her dressing gown; she slid it off and tossed it away.  Perhaps it was scandalously forward of her, but until now, she had only felt the touch of two men whilst in her shift – Kaladin and the false Ardent.  Neither of them could be considered romantic embraces – they were very very far from that; she still shivered at the memory of the soaking rag of ether on the torn skin of her fresh wound.  She wanted to replace those memories with good ones, and she did; she pressed against Adolin and felt the lean muscle of his chest and torso through his waistcoat, but she made no move to unbutton it. 

 Adolin’s fingers twined through hers, and she felt the scrape of the stubbly beginnings of his whiskers against her neck.  She giggled when he breathed his warm breath against her throat; she hissed when gave a friendly nip to her collar, on the opposite side to the one he had given her a few days ago.  A matched pair, she thought.  How fitting.

 “Shallan?” he whispered.

 “Hm?”

 And then she felt his lips at her ear, and she felt the breath of his exhalation swirling the tiny soft hairs at her temple, and he spoke those three words again.  This time she did not quail at the sound of them; she let them pass through her and away and into silence.

 The little doves tucked beneath her ribs cooed; they lacked the tongues of men so they could not speak, but they could sing, and they sang to one another, and they sang to Shallan, a song that no-one else could hear.  They fluttered their wings as if they were eager to stretch them, eager to venture outside their cage of skin and bone, and their flutter-flutter matched the fluttering of Adolin's heart inside his own ribs.

  But no – it was no longer inside his ribs.  The physical chambers of bloody muscle were still inside him, but the essence of it, the spirit beyond the flesh, was gone.  He had laid himself bare, and he had given it to her, and she had not the slightest idea of what to do with it.  She could hardly hold his nose and shove it back in through his open mouth.

 She decided to hold onto it for now, and hold it gently until she came up with an answer.  Adolin had said she had all the time she might need, and time was a gift she would willingly take, for it held no constraints on her like a guarantee of protection or safety.  She closed her eyes, and buried her face into Adolin’s shoulder, and let his neckcloth blot away her tears. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tying up character development for Shallan now. She's come full circle since the beginning, and now she won't be as annoying as she was at first. But I guess it will make her more boring, so the story will be ending soon. I hope all you nice reader people are enjoying it - but it's not done yet, don't worry. This wasn't long enough to do a full Sanderlanche, but things are better when they're neatened up. At least the romance bit, at least. This ain't epic fantasy, go home if you want epic battle scenes. 
> 
> On Navani - under the ice queen exterior, she's still a mother. She wanted a strong Duchess, but when she sees that Shallan can kill a man in cold blood, she realises that Shallan can do things that she afraid of doing. Dalinar, on the other hand, is impressed by her creativity and quick thinking.  
> "Napoleodium" - Remember what time period and setting this is supposed to be in? The reason why Jasnah thinks a marshpeople rebellion is going to happen is because of the Revolution. Of course, all of that is just worldbuilding colour and irrelevant to the main plot.  
> "If you remembered to take one of us with you" - Kaladin snark and metajoke here, meaning STOP WITH THE TRIANGLING AND PICK ONE FOR ALMIGHTY'S SAKE.  
> Shallan's feelings on Adolin's Other Girls - she tells herself that she's okay with it and she doesn't care, but you can read deeper into it. There's a reason why it's the first thing she jumps onto when he apologises. She's thinking about it a lot, unconsciously, and is possibly (who knows???) jealous.  
> "I could have done something" - Adolin's reaction is supposed to mirror his response to the time Szeth burst in through the wall like the Kool-Aid Guy in WoR.  
> "It would be with the deepest regret" - ironic echo. I like to do it a lot, and you can pick them out for yourself. It makes things more dramatic.  
> On Jakamav - a douchebag and a jerk, and Adolin gets annoyed because he doesn't like how he treats Shallan. "Adolin isn't good for one's reputation" comes from the scene in WoR when Jak tells Adolin after a plateau battle to stop asking him to hang out until he's cool again.  
> On tarnished reputations - remember when Shallan was thinking up ways to convince Adolin into eloping with her? One of them was letting him see her bathing. But now she doesn't care about eloping, and it shows that she's comfortable with being around him (in that way), even if he's uncomfortable with her. She's also kinda pervy.  
> "I'm not a courtesan" - Adolin refuses a courtesan in WoK for reasons. I didn't think it was just because he was on duty or that his dad would kill him. He doesn't refuse Shallan. :-)  
> "Taking the waters"/"Grand Tour" - rich people activities that mean going on holiday for several months and coming back when the gossip has died down. Obviously Adolin doesn't want Shallan going away for months.  
> "Have you not kissed him?"/"Why? Have you?" - here's a little poke at all those people who like to turn a love triangle into an OT3. Sorry guys, it wasn't going to happen in this story.  
> On Adolin's childhood - I never thought he had a perfect fairytale prince childhood in WoR either. I felt that there had to be a justification for why Adolin is such a good duellist, and why Renarin turned out to be so messed up.  
> Shallan's feelings on Adolin - read it as you will. xDDD


	17. XVII

 The minutes crept away, until an hour had gone, and then another hour, and it had not felt like any time had passed at all.  Shallan lay with her head nestled against Adolin’s chest; she felt its steady rise and fall under her cheek, and the steady gust of his breath as it wafted against her hair; she listened to the steady beating of his heart, past ten heartbeats, past a hundred, past a hundred hundred until she found that she could not care enough to count.  His arms held her, and her arms held him and what the world did as it happened around them was fleeting and transient in their minds; it would not solidify into the cold and clinging clutches of reality until they rose from their perfect peaceful moment.

 There was a restful comfort to be found in the embrace of a _companion_ , thought Shallan.  Now she knew why respectable girls of respectable family would risk their respectability for _this_ – it could not be described as unpleasant, no, not at all.  One could not feel misgivings in the moment; the aftermath, whenever it came, was the real test of regret.  But Shallan now understood the appeal of it, and why the lower classes mingled unrepentantly, and why Finnie had encouraged her to pursue Doctor Kaladin, a man well-known for his considerate nature.  To lay with a man whose company she found intolerable would have been immensely disagreeable – no doubt it would have firmed the impression of all men being intolerable. 

 And now that she knew how it felt to share the company of a man she well-liked, she did not think she could suffer such intimacy from anyone she did not like quite so much.  She was grateful, that although Adolin had not impinged upon her honour in _that_ particular regard, he had offered to make good the loss of her social dignity.  Shallan was pragmatic in her thinking: if she had been ruined and discarded by a Duke, she doubted she would ever be able to secure a match to her advantage, and never anything close to another Duke or ducal heir.  She would be lucky to marry a third son of the gentry; she might even have had to settle for middle class.

 Those thoughts were beneath her now, Shallan reminded herself.  She was not ruined, and she had not been discarded – and Adolin had not made the offer merely to appease his guilt, or to behave responsibly as compelled by the tenets of social obligation.  He had made the offer not as an act of true generosity, but because he was truly genuine in his sentiment.

 Adolin.  She felt his fingers drawing lines across her back, and she could smell the spice of his toilet water.  He was not a page in Jasnah’s Great Purpose, or an infinite ledger book, and he was certainly no golden goose – but here her artistically-minded instincts rebelled and declared that yes, he could be golden in the right light, with his clothes off – or at least dramatically disarrayed – to reveal his tanned skin, with perhaps a sunset backdrop to show his hair as something more luminous than a mundane yellow-blond.  She could not help herself; she giggled at the mental image.

 “What is so funny?” asked Adolin. 

 “Oh, nothing – merely a saucy thought,” said Shallan airily.  “I do not think they should count as saucy anymore, anyway.”

 “Why not?”

 “If the church says that immodesty between husband and wife is not immodesty, then I do not think Society would say that saucy thoughts of one’s future husband or wife are saucy.”

 “Future wife,” Adolin rolled the words around solemnly.  “Wife.  What a strange word – it must be something I ought to accustom myself.”  He sat up abruptly, and brushed his hair off his forehead.  “The House’s master apartments have been mothballed for years.  I suppose I should order them re-opened and cleaned.”

 “It shan’t need to be rushed.”  Shallan stretched her arms above her head and yawned.  Her shift rose upward, and revealed a flounce of her pantalets, and one bare knee, faintly freckled.  “And I thought husbands and wives slept in separate rooms.  It would be barbaric to do otherwise.  I do not mind this room so much, and I am sure you mind having to move from yours.”

 Adolin’s cheeks pinked, his breath caught in his throat; he had been about to say something, but he amended himself, and said, “The master apartment has separate rooms with an adjoining dining parlour – for breakfasts.  They open to one another without going through the hall.”

 “I have walked through half the House in my shift and I do not find it so terrible.”

 “I shouldn’t find myself partial to the prospect of walking through half the House in my drawers.”

Shallan looked at him, and a blush spread across her face; she could feel her ears warming under her hair.  She smiled, and the smile grew larger, and she giggled.  It was not what he had said that was so funny – it was the presence of a strange and tentative tension between them, one that hummed along almost beneath notice, and it made the both of them shy and skittish in their intimacy.

 It was a curious tension, and it was definitely not apprehension or unease – it arose from their slowly aligning imagination to expectation.  Shallan was sure – well, she was, at least – of how married couples proceeded: Madame Tyn had explained the procedures and mechanics of such things years ago; for Adolin, with his familiarity with horses, this subject could not easily be avoided.  But things one read in books were not full explanations.  Shallan had read descriptions of how swine’s feathers were used to turn aside cavalry charges, and she had read formulae handbooks for driftwatching, but neither was anything close to how they had been in reality.  Shallan could annotate those books with all the information that had been missed.

 Shallan laughed, and Adolin laughed too; she pressed her palms against his cheeks and held his face in her hands, and they were two people laughing about nothing.  They knew each other well – Shallan could read each flicker of emotion that passed over his face, and she could sense the trust he shared with her in his easy bearing; he was open in his demeanour, and he was transparent in his feeling.  And yet they had only known one another for a little more than a week – it felt like much longer – so they had only barely begun to know each other.  It was the very beginning of a journey, one that was far from any trial by fire.  It was an adventure that would not require daring heroism, only patience and reciprocation; although both lacked the wisdom of experience, she was not daunted by the vast and boundless journey unfurling before them.

  _A grand adventure._

 “We never got to dance, and I have lost my dance card,” Shallan said.

 “And I think we have missed dinner,” Adolin replied glumly. 

 “We could pay a call to the pantry.”

 “I’m not sure if they would want us there – not after last time.”

 “Then dress like a servant.  There are enough servants brought in with the guests’ retinues that we shan’t be recognised – we shall just have to wear caps to cover our hair.”  Shallan pulled herself upright, and swung her legs off the bed.  “Go find the plainest clothes you own – something you can have on without your valet – and I will meet you by the landing in twenty minutes.”

 “We were meant to stay upstairs – there might be more assassins—”

 “They would not attack servants, would they?  And are you not hungry?”  Shallan paused a moment.  “Or you could go downstairs to ring for a servant and ask for two sets of everything – and you will risk bumping into someone you know while the food is brought out.  This is _your_ Feast, and _you_ are co-host: you cannot brush off a guest without appearing to cut him straight to the marrow.”

 “Oh,” Adolin sighed.  He rose to his feet, picked up the fallen hairbrush, and placed it on the night table.  “My social graces are woefully dusty – my education in etiquette was mostly sacrificed in favour of military training.”

 “Your rank excuses you from the letter of propriety.  I imagine your brother and Jasnah take full of advantage of it.”

 Adolin went to the vanity and picked up his side-sword; he had thrown it and his coat over the vanity chair.  “I do not think we should go our separate ways: I will wait in the hall while you change, and you might do the same for me.”

 “A little help might be required for the bodice.”  Shallan opened the wardrobe door, and Adolin dutifully presented his back to her.  She found a bodice and pulled it around herself, plucking at the knotted laces.  “You may turn around now.”

 Adolin twisted around and immediately twisted back.  “You aren’t finished.”  His voice came out strained.

 “Because I’m waiting for you to help, silly.”

 She heard Adolin step over, and felt his fingers fumbling at the laces.

 “It would help if you did it with your eyes open,” she remarked.  Shallan shut her eyes and breathed evenly as Adolin’s fingers brushed against the bare skin of her shoulder; the laces were suddenly jerked very tight, and she gasped as the boning squeezed against her bandages.  “My goodness,” she coughed, struggling to breathe.  “It’s not supposed to be on that tight!  A bodice on me is only supposed to provide a bit of shape, not hold everything in.”

 Adolin loosened the laces.  “I thought it was like a girth strap,” he muttered, sounding embarrassed.  “The older horses try to trick you, so you have to watch their breathing when you buckle it on.  Otherwise they will throw off their saddles.”

 “I think,” said Shallan, “that if you are not sure about how some feature or other on horses translates to women, you might ask.”

 “You have never asked about – men things.  And so far you have done nothing wrong – nothing I should object to, at least.” 

 Adolin tied off the laces and withdrew, turning his back to her.   Shallan shrugged on her underdress – a plain white one, no lace – and buttoned it up, and reached for a black dress in hard-wearing wool.  It was simple and severely cut, but that allowed it to look presentable years after more modish styles passed into obsolescence.  
  
 “I think of the things I would like, and I do it.  It seems to work just fine.”

 “And what other people think: do you think of those before you act?”

 “I think myself the best judge of what I like, and what is best for me,” said Shallan, pulling on the dress.  She reached around for the buttons, but they were carved wood, and easy to manage alone.  “If I cared a whit for every single thing thought about me by other people, I should never leave my room.  Especially after to-night.  The Almighty blessed us with the capacity and the agency to choose our own path, and our Callings.  You should know well that both are the essence of command.”

 “They are.  But the entirety of my life—”

 “My life too,” Shallan cut in.  She was all too familiar with what he spoke.  She lowered her voice, speaking more gently.  “What binds you is merely perception.  It is nothing real – unless you think it is.  I killed a man but I am no killer.  You have done the same – and yet you call yourself a soldier.  Just for to-night, we will wear the faces of new people.  The rest shall come in time.”

 She braided her hair, pinned it up, and jammed it in under a knit bonnet.  It was no maid’s mobcap, but in her black dress, Shallan was shamming the appearance of a master-servant: a superior servant in the uniform of a qualified lady’s maid.  Small stylistic touches were allowed to upper servants who interacted daily with their Family; they were the frequent recipient of unwanted or disused garments or notions.

 She followed Adolin to his own room, letting him lead the way, several yards ahead.  Occasionally they passed soldiers in regimental uniform, who saluted him with the closed fist to breast; Shallan was ignored completely.   She smiled to herself; the luxury of choice was true freedom, but only if one had made themselves aware of the variety of choices available to them.  It was something she had known when she had studied with Madame Tyn, and had never considered that it could be applied to all of her, and not just the exterior.  To throw off the shackles of identity, to become a new woman for one evening – some might call it depravity, blasphemy, and a deliberate perversion of the hierarchy established by the Almighty, but Shallan saw it as an evaluation of skill.

 A new woman, in the affectionate company of a new man.

 Was she Shallan, who had found peace within, and within that, forgiveness?  Or was it the lady’s maid in the black of a master-servant, who held the arm of a man in the green-grey of a grounds-servant?

 “You smell like gunpowder,” Shallan noted.

 “These are the clothes I wear to the range.  The only things I hunt are clay pigeons.”  Adolin adjusted the set of his cap; he had tucked his yellow hair into it, to hide the mark of his obvious foreign blood.  There were few nobles with that colouring, and even fewer workers.  Shallan’s own hair was rather distinctive, but shades of it were not uncommonly found in northern Anglekar, near the Scottish border.

 “You look very smart.”  Shallan thought he did look fine, exceptionally fine – perhaps better than what might be expected for a grounds-servant.  Servants did not have jackets with an interior lining of bright blue silk; grounds staff certainly did not have their ghillie boots polished to a spit-shine. 

 They waited for a uniformed soldier with a musket over his shoulder to disappear around the corner, then they descended several staircases to reach the baize-tacked door of the servants’ hall.  Adolin reached for the door handle.

 “Wait,” called Shallan.  “Take off your ring – it would not do us much good if you were to be accused of thievery before we even got to the food.”

 She switched to the accent of an educated worker; she had not practiced the country Kholinshire accent much, but she had heard enough of it to incorporate it into a long disused upper servants’ accent: it had the tones of one exposed to gentle education, if lacking in the true phonetic perfection of gentle breeding.  There was not much Scottish lilt to that accent – it was fashionable for the northern gentry to emulate the King’s tongue, which was based on the Kholinar standard.   She could not pass as a local, but she would not be detected as noble.

 “Your voice changed,” Adolin observed.  He slipped off his gold signet, and placed it in an inside pocket of his jacket.  The lining flashed a cheerful blue, and Shallan winced.

 “I did tell you that my governess had an interest in languages,” said Shallan.  “Try not to speak much; if you cannot feign an accent, you will surely be caught out in conversation.”

 “Caught out in my own house.  Somehow I keep being drawn into the strangest of situations when I am with you.”   A smile tugged at his lips as he pulled open the door.  It slid open smoothly with no squeaking of hinges.

 “One should take new experiences when one can find them.  If you find them unpleasant, you must be sure to tell me.”

 “They are not unpleasant.”

 Shallan smiled up at him, and they stepped into the warmth and bustle of the servants’ hall.  It smelled of food, and hummed with the chatter of numerous conversations all at once; she heard the clinking of glasses and tableware, and the piping of flutes and fiddles in the distance to the clapping of hands and the stamping of feet.  Servants bustled past, pushing trolleys of dishes that had been only very lightly picked at, and she and Adolin were ignored.

 She knew it was not considered respectable to venture belowstairs uninvited; there were boundaries greater than the gap of income between the Family of the House, and the servants who served them.  There was blood, and breeding, and dignity – and shame.  Shallan had perceived long ago – but had never thought much of it until now – that servants did not want the gentle eyes of their employers to see how they lived, or how much work was required to uphold the standards.  It was illusion and perception that everything done was done with effortless and efficient ease.  One only saw the monkey on the organ grinder’s cabinet, and that was all what one wanted to see; the whistling pipes and cranking wheels on the inside were completely forgotten.

 It was an intrusion into the privacy of another family’s home, the family who lived belowstairs to the Family, and she would be found unwelcome – if she were found at all.  She glanced at Adolin.  It was likely he didn’t even know; it was the butler’s duty to ensure that the inner workings of the House were kept away from the master, and the only thing he got to see was the account book that was signed off at the end of each week.

 The servants’ dining table was overflowing with the leftover dishes from the luncheon buffet, and the grand dinner that she and Adolin had missed.  There were servants in the blue and white ducal livery of Kholinar Court, and the livery of other Dukes: they wore jackets and knee-breeches in the colours of the house standards, with the Family’s glyph pair embroidered over the breast.  The servants in the retinue of minor nobility were clad in hard-wearing grey or black or brown, with waistcoats in their Families’ colours; the master-servants dressed in all black, with occasional touches of very dark grey.  

 There were not enough chairs for all, or enough room to fit them; the diners filled their plates and either wandered about to make conversation, or left to the kitchens where there was more room to eat.  Adolin left her side and started immediately for the food, and left Shallan to stroll around and eavesdrop to her heart’s content. 

  _“—They don’t touch their food but they keep asking why their glasses are empty,”_ she heard a footman say.

  _“They drink like fish, don’t they?”_ replied a second footman.

  _“Slimy and chinless the lot of them; it must be something in the City water.”_

 Shallan moved on.

 She passed a small circle of younger women in the black of master-servants.  Their curled and braided hair peeked out from underneath small circular lace caps that perched decoratively on their heads; they didn’t appear to cover anything that the ladies considered worth showing.  The collars of their underdresses were edged with thin lace trimmings that did not dare to go so far as to proclaim garish wealth, only the tasteful elegance of a connection to a stylish lady of quality.

 “If you ladies are interested in bettering your position,” said one woman with tight corkscrew curls that fell over her forehead like a sheepdog’s forelock, “I hear there’s a good chance of a new Duchess Kholinar.”

 “I daresay the position of Miss Kholinar is bound to be up any day – much better than holding one’s breath for a shot at Miss Kholinshire,” remarked another woman.  She had silver ribbons stitched around the neck of her dress.

 “What say you, Miss Morakotha?” asked the first to the third, a slim lady with hair braided around wooden hairspikes in plain black lacquer.

 Shallan remembered that ladies’ maids – and personal servants in general – when guesting in the residence of another household, addressed one another by the hereditary titles of their Families; they did this rather than defer to the brazen familiarity of Vorin names.  Adolin’s valet, had he been present, would have been referred to as Mr Kholinar, and Renarin’s as Mr Kholinshire.

 Miss Morakotha tossed her head and smiled thinly; Shallan began to develop an instant dislike toward her.  “Miss Khal, I think there’s a good chance I might get my step and end up a Miss Kholinar without the whole rigmarole of audiences and referrals.”

 The other ladies looked at each other meaningfully, then the second woman with the silver ribbons hesitantly said, “I heard Lady Danlan is rather set on landing a certain Duke.”

 “I say she has a good chance of landing him, Miss Lustow,” said Miss Morakotha.   “She told me that she managed two sets with him, and a kiss before dinner.”

 The ladies tittered, and sipped their drinks, and Shallan’s face reddened.  Her fists scrunched up folds of her skirt and she clenched her teeth to keep herself composed. 

 Miss Morakotha raised an eyebrow at Shallan.  She gestured her over. “Miss, you are perfectly welcome to join in our conversation.  Has your own lady got her sights set on any eligible Duke?”

 The other ladies turned their heads to Shallan and gave her polite nods; they made room for her in their circle and eyed her dress, which had no small features to make it individual – no lace edging, no porcelain or shell buttons, or interior linings of dark purple or dark blue or dark red in scraps of silk or cotton passed down as gifts from a generous employer-patroness.

 “Miss Valam,” said Shallan, nodding to the other ladies.  She spoke in her artificial accent, and threw in a touch of a northern burr to soften the consonants.  “My own lady is married to a cousin of Duke Hatham.  I sincerely doubt that she intends to annul her own marriage of thirty years for a southern estate like this one, no matter how grand it is.”

 The ladies seemed to accept her explanation; they looked at one another and smiled, and did not appear to see her as a threat to their future employment.

 “Have you looked at the books?” said Miss Morakotha, jerking her head in the direction of an archway; there was a trestle on the other side, in the direction of the kitchens.  Shallan saw men in waistcoats and shirtsleeves with their heads bent around a ledger in the centre; one young man with the sleeve covers of a bootboy scribbled intently into the book.  “There’s a book on who will be the next lucky Duchess Kholinar.  One will get you two on Lady Danlan.”

 “Well, one mustn’t count their chickens,” answered Shallan.  “Who else is in the running?”

 “Lady Melali is one for three,” Miss Lustow said.  “And my own Lady Janala is one for five.”

 “Any northern girls with good prospects?” Shallan inquired.  Her interest had been piqued; she had always been fascinated with the applied arithmetic of fortune and chance – it was something she and Wikim and occasionally Jushu had looked into when they’d found out one could cheat at cards if one had the numbers.  And she was curious about another thing.  “I’d like to see a good northern lass well set-up.  Nothing wrong with southern girls, of course, but I should think that northern lassies have a bit more spit to them.”

 Miss Khal spoke.  “The Scottish one, that Lady Shallan, was one for eight the last time I checked.  She was higher up in the ranks earlier for being a personal guest of His Grace, but she didn’t even dance a single set with him.”

 “You see.”  Miss Morakotha smiled.  “A good chance indeed.”  Then her eyes flicked over Shallan’s shoulder, and she straightened up, patting at her hair and her little lace headpiece.

 The other ladies turned as one.  It was Adolin, approaching whilst nibbling on a slice of pie, a full plate in his hands.  He nodded to the ladies with his habitual courtesy, and glanced at Shallan.

 “Shal—” Shallan made a quick gesture with one hand, and Adolin corrected himself.  “Shal – are you hungry?  There’s plenty of food if you want any.  And I didn’t see any _things_ you can’t eat.”

 “I shall join you in a few more minutes – please do not wait for me.”  She smiled at Adolin, who smiled back, ignoring the ladies who were inspecting Adolin with an appreciative eye.  Adolin soon re-joined the queue at the dining table, and the ladies turned back to their conversation.

 Miss Morakotha sniffed and shot Shallan an appraising look.  “Miss Valam, I should say you could do much better than a gamekeeper or groundsman.”

 “He is not bad to look at,” said Miss Lustow.  She twisted a curl around her finger idly.  “He speaks decently well – and has height and leg enough to make the roster of household staff should he want it.  You might encourage him to better himself.  Lace and new kid gloves don’t buy themselves, you know.”

 “The horses make him happy, and that is good enough for me,” said Shallan, rather defensively.  “Not everything has to be about wealth.”

 “But most things are, Miss Valam.  It seems to me that your northern lasses may have more spit than sense if they cannot understand that simple fact of life.”  Miss Morakotha smiled an obnoxious smile, and Shallan struggled against the impulse to strike her.

 “Excuse me, ladies.  I find myself quite faint and out of sorts – and in need of a restorative bite.”  Shallan nodded to the ladies’ maids, who nodded back, and went to find Adolin.  She knew without having to listen that the ladies were discussing – _criticising_ – her being so disagreeably contrary in her attitudes. 

 She found Adolin, and tapped him on the shoulder, and he grinned. 

 “They have spiced chicken!” He took up a serving spoon and ladled spicy gravy onto his plate.  “It’s my favourite.  Do you want some?”

 “Why not?  How much money do you have on you?”

 “What – why?  I don’t think we have to pay for this food; I already bought it—”

 “There is a little wager I would like to win.”

 “Oh!  Wagers!  I suppose they are only fun if people are willing to bet against you.”  Adolin handed her his plate, and dug into a pocket of his trousers, and then checked the pockets of his coat.  While she waited, she nibbled at his chicken.  It was very good, though it was served colder here than originally intended, and spicier than she was used to.  Adolin held out a hand.  “Here – this is all I have.  I don’t have my billfold on me, but will this do?” 

 Shallan took the money, and counted it up.  Three guineas and one sovereign.  It was enough money to buy over a hundred pounds of oats, and still have enough left for butter and eggs.  Of course it was nothing to Adolin. 

 “It is more than enough – thank you!”  She gave him his plate back, and went to find the men running the books. 

 Shallan swept past the archway – and into the kitchens.  She had been here before, after that embarrassing pantry incident.  The string bags of onions hanging from the rafters were familiar to her, as were the barrels of flour and meal and lard against the walls.  But now the central working tables were not full of cook’s assistants preparing food, but servants with their jackets off eating, drinking, laughing and – placing bets.  

 There were the menservants bent over the ledger.  One man had a small wooden rack of beads; another man, the one with the sleeve covers spotted with drops of ink, was writing with a dip pen and occasionally wetting it in an ink bottle with a brass wire-bound cork.  There were other men opposite, and Shallan saw money changing hands, and little slips of paper being exchanged.

 “I would like to place a wager on the new Duchess Kholinar,” Shallan announced.

 The man at the ledger looked up, eyes narrowing.  He scratched his chin, and flipped over to a new page in his book.  “Another for Lady Danlan, then?”

 “No – what are the odds for Lady Shallan?”

  _Flip, flip, flip_ went the pages. “One gets you eight and a half.  Long odds, unless you’d like to take the risk.”

 “Here.”  Shallan dropped the money onto the book.  They hit the paper with a series of muted taps.  Shallan was disappointed; a clatter and a slow roll to a gentle stop would have been much more dramatic.  But the gold gleamed with the warmth of high purity, and the faces of King Elhokar I winked at her in the light of the overhead lamps, and that was striking enough.  “For Lady Shallan.”

 The man gazed down at the coins, and he picked one up.  “Eighty-three sphere shillings.  Over two months’ wages.”  He looked at Shallan and back at the coins, and there was there was greed in his eyes.  “Right.  Who should I make it out to?”

“Second chambermaid Finnie, if you please.”

 He wrote the payment into his ledger, and then a receipt – two copies.   One of them was torn out and handed over to Shallan.  “Here.  Good luck, darling.”  He chuckled, and swept the coins into a lockbox. 

 “Do you pay out in instalments?  I imagine it might be hard to have out over thirty-five spheres sterling at once,” Shallan said.

 “Payout is only for winners,” said the man, smirking.  He looked at the other man with the racked beads.  “All wagers are final, Miss.  No coming back to us in tears when you’ve skinned yourself well and true.”

 “Of course not.”  She tucked the slip of paper into her sleeve and left them to their business. 

 Shallan strolled deeper into the kitchens, looking about.  She was an inquisitive person, and she could not see that a thirst for knowledge could ever be a flaw, even if it had led to unfortunate occurrences in the recent past.  But that was not the fault of an existence of her investigative nature; rather people, for some reason she did not understand, objected to it.  It was not like she purposefully pried into their affairs: she just found things interesting that often people did not particularly want her to know.

 She passed into the inner kitchens, with their cooling racks – now mostly empty – and the bread baskets, which were uncovered now, revealing lonely crumbs scattered on the bottoms of the muslin sackcloth basket linings.  She heard the low murmur of conversation, and saw the blue of regimental uniforms; they were common soldiers – the Prince’s guardsmen – eating their dinners.  One of them wore a uniform coat with the epaulets of an officer.  She hesitated for a brief moment, and then immediately wheeled around, back to the safety of the outer kitchens. 

 “Miss Davar,” a voice called out behind her.  She heard the scrape of a chair.  The conversation of the soldiers tapered off; they fell to silence.  There were footsteps behind her.

 Of course Shallan knew who it was.  She felt something inside her shrink away in shame; her conscience stung at her own willing and humiliating blindness.  She had overlooked something whose existence had been staring at her so obviously that other people had noticed immediately – and Adolin was only the most recent on the list of perceptive observers.  Shallan had always thought herself clever, but she was not – not in this matter, at least.

 Kaladin’s hand caught her elbow.  She kept walking.

 She enjoyed his company.  That was true.  She enjoyed his companionship, and his conversation.  He kept her on her toes, and not only because she had to be if she wanted to glare at him eye to eye.  He was intelligent, and insightful, and he had cared about her before she had thought there was anything in her worth caring about.  She had seen the first two points but had been reluctant to admit them until very recently, and the last one was something she had only just discovered. 

 She ducked under the staircase leading upward to the servants’ sleeping quarters.  It was empty; everyone was in the servants’ hall, and she could hear the clatter of tableware, and distant echoing music, and someone singing a folk tune.  She turned around. 

 Kaladin faced her, casting a shadow; his broad shoulders blocked out the light from the hall lamps.  For all that she had thought his eyebrows unpleasant, they were expressive, even when the rest of his face was set into stoic grimness.  He carried himself assertively, and had around him an aura of confidence and surety; he had his own appeal that was much different from Adolin’s pleasant openness.  No, it wasn’t exactly appealing, at least not her, she thought.  The quality that other ladies found appealing in him was the latent potential for being … _dangerous_.  It was strength withheld, command curtailed, passion leashed.  All of it was held within one man, who could not quite successfully represent himself to be the image of a mild-mannered country doctor.

 “Doctor Kaladin.”

 “Miss Davar.”

 Shallan took a slow breath.  “You call me Miss Davar,” she said, picking out her words with care.  “And I at first presumed it to be cheek, but we grew acquainted, and I began to think it was not just rudeness or disrespect.  This whole time, and every time you call me that, you were seeking familiarity.”

 “It is as you say.”  His voice was soft and thoughtful.  “What of it?”

 “You are _fond_ of me.”

 “Yes.  More, perhaps.  And you?”

 “I am fonder of myself than I was yesterday.”

 “I am glad to hear it, but you know that is not what I meant.”  One eyebrow rose upward.

 Shallan pursed her lips.  She did not know what to say to this question, just as she did not know what to say when Adolin had said _those_ words to her for the first time.  But at least she was spared of them now, or she would have stood frozen on the spot as her mind ran in panicked circles, shrieking in horror and confusion. 

 “I do not know.”  She paused, and bit her lip, thinking of what else to do or say.  “Close your eyes.”

 Kaladin didn’t close his eyes.  He just stared at her with one brow impudently raised.  Shallan huffed, and then she placed one hand very lightly on his shoulder; she got to her toes and leaned forward.  Then, abandoning prudence and good judgment, her hand on his shoulder slid into his hair and angled his head downward.  Shallan placed one soft kiss on his lips.  It was two seconds long – she’d counted – and as long as it took to hold a curtsey; she then stepped back. 

 It didn’t feel like anything other than lip on lip.  She didn’t tingle, and she didn’t feel out of breath, and her heart didn’t skip any beats. The cagéd doves within her didn’t flutter about and coo, or give any indication at all that they noticed anything interesting outside their cage.  They were silent; she was silent, Kaladin was silent, and the silence stretched on and on.  He looked at her, and there was something in his eyes that seemed distressingly familiar to her, but she did not know its name, because she did not want to know its name.

 “Shallan,” he breathed, and he took one step closer, then another step, until the toes of his scuffed uniform boots kissed the toes of her calf-hide slippers.

 One scarred hand found her waist, and it was just like when he had danced the Continental waltz with her three times earlier that afternoon; it was as gentle as he had been every morning as he changed her bandages.  The hand slid around to the small of her back, and pulled her close to him.  Then with startling suddenness, the arm around her tightened, and it pulled her up until her feet left the ground and there was nothing but empty air beneath her toes.

 Kaladin pressed her against the wall in the small alcove beneath the stairs, his hair tickled her cheeks, and his mouth sought hers with desperate hunger.  Shallan squeaked in surprise as his arms held her firmly around the waist; her hands instinctively reached for something – anything – as she was lifted up and off balance; they tangled into his black hair, and their lips met once again. 

 He was passionate, and almost aggressive in his embrace.  His lips angled against hers with the intensity of long-suppressed yearning; his chest pressed against hers, just as her back pressed against the wall.  His tongue slid across her lower lip in heated supplication.  Shallan opened her eyes.  She could see the feverish extent of his desire in the lamplight; it glinted in his dark eyes under their dark brows.  Those eyes – something blazed inside them, fierce and restless and hungry – they wanted something, and it was something Shallan did not have in her to give.  

 Those eyes blinked.  Sense returned.  Shallan was lowered back to her feet.

 She felt the rasp of his stubbling whiskers against her jaw, and his hand cupped her chin.

 “Shallan,” he whispered, and he placed one slow and tender kiss on her cheek; she could feel his warm breath as a sigh left him, releasing all of the regret and bitterness of his disappointment into the world.  “Don’t cry,” he said, and his thumb stroked against her cheek and wiped away a tear and she wondered where it had come from, because she wasn’t crying, _she_ _couldn’t be!_

 “I felt – nothing,” Shallan said.  Her hands fell limply to her sides, and she sagged against the wall.  “I am sorry.  It was never meant to be.”

 “It never could have been.”  His voice was gentle, and controlled; she could discern no anger, or blame, or residual disappointment.  But then something caught in his throat, for he made a queer coughing sound.  It was almost like a laugh.  “Hah,” he said, “love for a noble lady is nothing but a foolish hope—”

 Shallan knew he was echoing something she had said earlier that day.  “Hush, that is self-pity.”

 Amusement twisted a corner of his lips.  “You caught me there.”

 Shallan sank to the floor, and pulled her knees up to her chin.  After a moment, Kaladin joined her with a rustle of his coat.  She leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder, in the shadow of the staircase.  She felt sad and drained, even though it hadn’t been she who had borne the blow of rejection.  No, it was because Kaladin had borne it, and he had suffered, and he was still suffering, even if he gave no indication of how he felt beneath the discipline of his outward appearance.  And she was the one who had dealt it, for she had made this caring man, this true friend of hers, have to find his peace again when he thought he had already found it years ago.  It was a different peace for a different sort of brokenness, but the journey was always the same painful struggle.

 “You called me _‘_ _utterly unsuitable’_ once,” she said.  She gazed into the lamplight and the yellow brightness filled her eyes and burned out her night-vision until she could not see his face, or even his body adjacent to hers.  “You were right.  And I didn’t even know it.  I didn’t know many things and I am only starting to know them now.  For instance – Adolin.  He thinks I am perfect and beautiful.  You think of me as flawed and broken.”

 “You are all of these things.  And more,” came his reply.

 Shallan shut her eyes.  The afterimage of the lamp’s flame hovered blurred and violet in her mind.  “No.  I am done with brokenness.  I will have nothing to do with it.  Not anymore.”

 “I see.”

 “You see,” she continued, scraping together her thoughts into a coherent whole.  “You and I are too much alike.  I think that is why I could not like you upon our first introduction.  You were competition to me; I felt threatened – I was afraid that you were everything like me, but better.”

 “I suppose the feeling was mutual.”

 “We think the same way – or similar.  When I am with Adolin, I learn something more from him every day, and he from me.  With you, I see a reflection of myself.  Wiser perhaps, and steps ahead, but still recognisable.  I do not want that, and I cannot conceive myself wanting it.”  She hesitated, and ploughed on.  “Not in that way – you know which.  Please, shall we remain mutual acquaintances?  Friends, if you will have it?”

 “Friends,” said Kaladin carefully.  “I should like that very much.  For as long as you are here.”

 “I am staying.” 

 She felt his arm twitch ever so slightly when she said those three words.  They were three words that sounded like simple words, but they had in them a singular depth of meaning, and an implication of many words unsaid and words that could never ever be said because they had been said first by another.  They were three words that closed the door firmly and permanently on whatever hopes Kaladin had left in him.

 “I suppose a congratulations would be in order,” he said flatly.

 “I want a gift.”

 “Noble ladies really are all the same.”

 “Not a material gift.  Just your time.  And just this once—”

 “No.  _No_ – not that.”

 “You said to ask again in a week.  It has been a week now, and I am asking.”

 “Why?”  He sounded resigned. 

 “I just wanted to see if it was different … Just once.  I shall never ask it of you again.  _Please.”_    She did not resort to pleading.  She knew it would not have worked.

 “For you – just this once.”

 “Thank you.”

 “There is one condition.”

 “What is it?”

 “Renarin will be there.”

 “I accept,” she said immediately, and she began to suspect something that she had not caught onto earlier.  She wondered how many things had passed her by unawares.  Probably many things, so many she couldn’t begin to guess.

 “To-morrow, then, in the stillroom.”

 Shallan was silent, and then some minutes passed, and Kaladin got quietly to his feet and left her sitting under the stairs.  When he was gone, she sniffed, and wiped her eyes, and wiped them again, because the tears did not seem like they were able to stop, and she could not do anything to stop them.

  _The road untaken, the path unchosen, the words unspoken._

 If the twists and turns in her life had gone another way, perhaps she would have found her peace on her own – without needing the guidance of another.  Or even if her life had been re-directed from its origin of despair, six years ago, and she had never had to do the things she had done, things that filled up her aching nothingness with dark and tarry corruption.   Then there would exist a chance – a good chance – she would have found Kaladin’s intimate companionship an appealing prospect, and returned his affections, if things had been different. 

 But Kaladin would not have felt affection for her if she had been nothing but beautiful perfection inside and out.

 And Adolin would not have revealed his own private self if he had only seen nothing but a façade of beautiful perfection in her.

 Shallan clasped her hands around her folded legs, and the high collar of her underdress grew damp.  It had felt like a betrayal of a friend, to do that – to cause such pain and sorrow, no matter how subtly hidden – to Kaladin.  If it had been her, it would have felt like someone had reached beneath her ribs and wrung the necks of her sleeping doves.  To think that she would have thought nothing of doing it to Adolin at one time. 

 Adolin had held himself apart and away from true intimacy in emotion for five years – or possibly even more, because some part of him – a part he was still blindly grappling in darkness to find – was afraid of a rejection, a true and merciless confirmation of his own unworthiness.  It would have been a mark on his spirit, and one so deep and unfamiliar and unconsciously feared as to have torn it straight through.

 She and Kaladin had felt the pain of such scars; her first had come from her own dear and demented mother, but now it had long since scabbed up and the pain was now only memory.  They were used to bearing their marks.  Kaladin would find his peace in time.  Adolin, however, needed her help, and she would give it willingly, because she – _she—_

 The stairs above creaked.

 Shallan rose, and brushed the dust off her skirts.  She looked upward, but she only saw a shadow on the stairs above her, wearing the black of either a servant’s livery, or a formal dining suit.  She could see no face, only a pair of folded arms that rested casually on the wooden banister of the landing. 

 _“Mademoiselle,”_ said the shadow.  It was a male voice, calm and reserved in tone, with the precise enunciation of a native speaker to this Continental tongue.

 Shallan scrubbed her sleeve over her face.  “Go away.  I want nothing to do with you.”

 “Citizen Kabsal sends his best regards.”

 “I want nothing to do with him,” she growled.

 “You have proven yourself worthy.”  He was restrained in his speech, but it could not be said to be completely emotionless; if he had emotion, she doubted that they were benevolently disposed toward her.  His accent in the Anglethi tongue was not Kholinar standard, but neither was it anything she could recall having heard before.

 “I do not need your validation.”

 “But you share our purpose, as your presence _here_ indicates.”  He paused, as if considering something important.  Then he continued. _“Egalité_ is one of the virtues we hold dear.”

 Shallan said nothing.  She heard approaching footsteps at the end of the hallway, from the direction of the servants’ hall.

 “Come find us.  We shall be waiting.” 

 The stairs above creaked.

 A small oblong of white pasteboard fluttered down from above and fell to the ground.  It landed in front of Shallan’s feet, and showed a printed design of three diamonds on its face.  She scooped it up, and turned it around – it had the dimensions and appearance of a common visiting card.  The back was blank. 

 “Shallan!” called Adolin’s voice from the end of the hallway.  “There you are!”

 She tucked the card into her sleeve, next to her betting slip.  She cleared her throat.  “Adolin.”

 He stepped forward, and hesitated.  “Shallan — are you crying?”

 _“No._  Yes.  I was.  But not anymore,” she said, and with a deep sigh, wrapped her arms around him, and laid her head against his chest.  Her bonnet slipped off and dropped to the floor.  “It’s not melancholy, or not exactly.  It is six years’ worth of stifled _things_ that I hid away and now they are showing themselves all at once.  But I am better.  I think I am.  I want to be better.”

 “For to-night, we are new people – different people,” whispered Adolin.  “I don’t want to think about being better.  I don’t want to think about other people thinking I should be better.”  

 “That comes to-morrow.”  Shallan laughed, pulled herself away, and bent down to pick up her bonnet.  She tugged it over her hair.  “When the clock strikes midnight.”

 “Until then, we can be knight and princess, and we can slay bog monsters.”  He held out his hand.  “Or we can have one dance together.”

 They danced the quadrille, which was more intimate and less stylised than the formal cotillion danced in the ballroom, and Shallan was glad to find that Adolin was well-familiar with the steps; he did not tread on her toes even once.  Shallan was also glad that there was no courtly minuet – she had always hated it when Madame Tyn had made her learn it with Jushu.  There were even some lively folk dances that had Adolin blushing when more than just ankles were revealed with some particularly athletic high kicks.

 Dancing in the servants’ hall to the music of musicians who had never rehearsed together before: these must be completely new experiences to Adolin, and to Shallan, experiences in which she had not partaken for a number of years.  She had, in the past, listened to musicians and watched roguish dance performances in the gambling tents at Middlefest, but these were things young ladies should never admit.

 Shallan also marvelled at the servants’ lack of interest in observing the rules of proper social etiquette.  No-one commented on her dancing with Adolin the whole night, or that both of them had turned away every other enquiry for the single-pair dances.  Perhaps others did disapprove that she, as a master-servant, was higher in precedence than Adolin the groundsman, but that was no obstruction to their enjoying their one Feast night.  Above stairs, accepting a dance with the same person three times in a single evening would have been an expression of serious interest: it would have indicated that one would be sure to pay a social call within the week.  And an unmarried and unengaged young lady who declined an offer to dance would have been expected to decline every other gentleman for the rest of the evening; to turn away a single gentleman would have been blatant and cutting rudeness.

 When she danced the reel, pink-cheeked in her exertion, she allowed herself to forget all the terrible things that happened in the day; for those few minutes she was a new woman.  She imagined herself as a version of the old Shallan who had found her divergent path and her peace within, without having to leave her highland home.  It felt like the days before Mother had changed and Father had gone away and returned as his own new – and terrible – man.  The days when the family were honoured clansmen to The McValam, and they all dressed in clean new tartans with bright shiny badges and brooches and buckles for the annual clan moot.  It reminded her of the days when her brothers could laugh without needing her help. 

 It felt like happiness.

 It was a strange and unfamiliar word.  It was a strange and unfamiliar sensation.

 When the clock struck midnight, and reality descended with its leaden mundanity, the feeling didn’t go away.  It was almost as if, in the emptiness within her, the small sparks of forgiveness and peace had shuffled aside to make room for that new and novel feeling.  It was a gentle invitation, an encouragement to stay, but only if it wanted to.

 How very strange indeed.

 The personal servants in black began drifting away to prepare the rooms of their charges for bed; it would be at least another hour for the Feast to start winding down, but bed-warmers needed to be warmed, and pots of restorative teas needed brewing in order to forestall the results of excess.  She and Adolin headed for the baize door, to a few inquisitive stares of other servants.  Shallan blushed, and strode away quickly.  Grounds staff had their own quarters outside, by the stables, and should normally have exited the servants’ hall by the trades entrance – they were not usually to be seen in the House proper.  Unless, of course, they had an invitation and a motive.

 Adolin walked her back to her room, and she showed him her repertoire of collected accents.  It was not as extensive, or varied, or as well-practiced as Madame Tyn’s, but Shallan still considered it respectable.  She could pass as a member of any social class by voice alone; it was only her appearance that needed adjustment – most Anglethi women were taller, more generously proportioned, and were darker of hair and complexion.   Well, she mused, she could always pass as a foreigner if the situation demanded.

 “The first time I met Doctor Kaladin, at the Black Thorn Inn in Courtlea,” said Shallan, “I used my Scottish accent, and I mocked his hair.  He never liked me, right from the start — but I suppose I deserved it.”

 “The first time I met Kal.” Adolin scratched his head.  “It was around two years ago, in a bawdy-house.  I heard screaming from inside, and I rushed in, and it turned out one of the girls was having a – _you know_.  I panicked and sent for a physician – I didn’t know they had midwives for these things – and Kal came.”

 Shallan laughed as she tried to imagine Adolin, of all people, in a house of ill-repute.  Her imagination failed her; it fell disappointingly short.  “Did they call you the hero of the bawdy-house afterward?”

 Adolin flushed; he ducked his head.  “I barracked with an infantry platoon for two months as a training exercise, and that is exactly what they called me.”

 “I’m surprised they didn’t offer you free service for your trouble.”

 “They did.”  Adolin’s face reddened further.  It was so wonderfully charming.

 Shallan burst out into uproarious laughter; she covered her mouth for propriety’s sake, but it made her laughs sound like snorts, and soon Adolin was laughing with her, and they were laughing together at the thought of that bizarre situation that almost boggled the mind with its sheer ridiculousness.  It felt good to laugh.  It was something that she had never done in Kaladin’s presence.

 Shallan hiccupped, and giggled.  They had reached the door of her bedchamber.  “Will you bid me good-night?” she asked.  Then she threw respectability to the winds.  “Or might you stay?”

 Adolin hesitated.  “I shouldn’t stay.  Not to-night, at least.  But I can bid you good-night.” 

 He took up her right hand with his left, and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. 

 Shallan almost rolled her eyes.  “It is past midnight, but we are still in costume, and there are no chaperons.  If that is how you say good-night, then I ought to show you how _I_ say it.”

 “How do you say it?”

  _“Like this.”_

 She placed her hands on Adolin’s shoulders and propelled him to the wall; his back hit the wall with a thump.  He stared down at her, eyes wide – there was more eager curiosity than shock in them.  Shallan smiled, then her hand swung upward, and she tossed his cap to the floor.  His striped yellow-and-black hair stuck up in hedgehogs’ spikes. 

 Shallan rose to her toes and pressed her lips to his, first very lightly, and then with more force.  She could not say aloud the words he wanted to hear, for they would have burned her lips – but she could show him how her lips burned, and perhaps he could feel what she felt in their act of silent communication.  He would understand that when he laid himself open beyond flesh and muscle and bone, and given her something of his that could not be given back, it had not gone lost and forgotten; it was kept, and repaid, in what little way she thought she was capable of showing.

 Adolin’s arms circled her waist, and he held her close, and their noses brushed, and she felt the flutter of his lashes.  She kissed him again, and laid a hand on his cheek; in a moment of inspiration, she swept her tongue over his lips.  He balked in surprise, but he was pressed against the wall, and Shallan was pressed against him, and there was nowhere for him to turn. 

 Kaladin might not be an agreeable person, and she could not consider him appealing in that way, but he could not be faulted for his competence.  It was irksome, no doubt, but here was an occasion where his proficiency could be found unexpectedly useful.

 Adolin recovered rather quickly, and kissed her back, and he was smiling when he kissed her – she could feel his teeth grazing her lips.  She gave him one last enthusiastic peck before pulling away; she felt exultant and breathless all at once, and by the rise and fall of his chest, she could see that he felt the same way.

 “Well,” said Adolin weakly, leaning heavily on the wall, “I do not think I have been bidden good-night quite like that before.”

 “Isn’t it a convenient thing that a good-night can be had at least once per day, then?”

 “A good-night like that could make any night a good one.”

 “It has been many years since anyone has wished me a good-night.” 

 “Yes,” said Adolin.  His eyes closed, and he was silent for a moment.  “My mother was the only one.  When I was a child, she used to say _‘Adilein, ab ins Bett!’_ every evening before blowing out the lamps.”

  _“‘Adilein’?”_ Shallan had not been taught to fluency all of the Continental languages, of which there were many, but she had the sneaking suspicion that Adolin’s mother’s farewell was not quite a literal good-night.

 _“‘Adilein’,_ or _‘Adi’_ was what she called me when Father wasn’t around.  Which he wasn’t, most of the time.”

 “I didn’t know you could speak other languages,” said Shallan.

 “I don’t – I can’t – I have not heard it spoken for years,” Adolin admitted.  “Renarin speaks it better, but he was always fonder of the tutoring room than I.”

 “I do not have fluency in your mother’s tongue, but my governess lived in the Varshava embassy in her childhood.  I can show you a different flavour of good-night, if you’d like.”

 “I would like it.”

 Shallan closed her eyes, and remembered the Kujawiak shepherdess act she and Madame Tyn had played out one rainy day – the governess had even been so thorough as to ensure that Shallan knew how to rope a ewe.  There were words she wanted to say; they lingered and she felt their warmth – but it was like staring at the sun.  She would be blinded and burned if she looked at it directly, but if she glanced quickly out of the corner of her eye, or wore smoked glass lenses that filtered the light, the brilliance would not hurt.  She could not say _those_ words – not right now – but she could still say them, in her own way.

 “ _Jeżeli mnie kochasz, zatem moje serce należy do ciebie_ ,” she whispered into his ear.  The words warmed her tongue and filled her chest, but they did not burn her, or choke her in her deception.   She did not think they were a deception.

 “Yesheli minyeh—” repeated Adolin, and then stopped, embarrassed.  “What does it mean?”

 “You must speak it with more of a whistle – and it is a greeting for the closest of companions.”  That was true. 

 “I am flattered, then.”  He grinned at her, and she wondered what he would say, or how he would look if – when – she could say the real words to him and truly mean it.

 “You would not hesitate to say the same thing to me.”  Shallan brushed a kiss on his cheek, and then said very softly, “Wealth is not the only language.  We should find them – and learn them together.  And then you might show me how a good-night is meant to be said.”

 Shallan picked up Adolin’s fallen cap, and pressed it into his hands.  She opened the door of her bedchamber, entered, and closed the door; she then threw herself on the bed, disregarding the streaks of dirt on the bed-cover, left from Adolin’s boots.  She kicked off her own slippers, and unbuttoned her dress; the two white pieces of paper tucked into her sleeve flitted to the floor, and she lay staring at the canopy in her bodice and underdress.  Her sketchbook and pen box were still on the bed next to her, and her silver hairbrush on the side table.  The other pillow had an indentation in the down stuffing from where Adolin’s head had rested.

 She missed him already.

 Adolin was different from Kaladin, as he was different from her.  She could not miss herself: her true self was something she had done her best to forget and ignore for so many long years, and even now she had found her peace, she did not perceive it as something worthy of an eager embrace; it was not a flaw to her character, but neither could it be considered a credit.  Kaladin might see her scars as a medal of bravery in the face of a difficult circumstance, but Shallan could not.  Not yet.  For now, they were just scars.

 Adolin was new, but he was no short-lived bloom of novelty.  He was the unfamiliar that was slowly becoming familiar, and that was something she looked forward to, not something she would grow tired of.  Kaladin had asked if she had had anything in common with him, and Shallan, in her pragmatism, did not consider that a vital foundation for any intimate connection.  Few people did, rich or poor alike.  No: she and Adolin had an understanding, and they understood one another, and they would find things to learn and teach and share in their own time.

 Shallan had not thought herself a lonely person – not for years, at least.  She had once joked with Jasnah that her sarcastic humour was the result of her tiring of tiresome company; it was the most suitable solution to the avoidance of boredom.  She liked to be the undisputed winner in every conversation, for she detested dull conversation; she had often conversed with herself in her own mind when there was no-one else who could spare her the time or attention.  She had not known she was lonely – because she had not known what it was like to have friends.

 And now she had these friends she had found without seeking, and one of them was – more than a friend.  He sought her companionship, and she did not shy away from the prospect of his being her … life companion.  She did not feel the urge to win or compete with Adolin as she did with Kaladin; he delighted in her humour, and she had discovered that _that_ was more appealing than being established as an uncontested wit.  Conversation as a contest had not won her friends: instead, she had caused Kaladin to dislike her from their first introduction.

 There was a knock on the door, a brief and tentative tap that was followed by another that was even more cautiously tentative, if that were possible. 

 Shallan’s eyes opened and she rose, and went to answer the door.

 Adolin stood outside, hand raised for another knock.  He had no coat or waistcoat, only a blue dressing robe thrown over his white shirt and trousers.  His boots were half unlaced; the strings trailed on the ground.

 “Adolin, what are you doing—”

 “A good-night isn’t a good night unless there is a good-morning.  And I wanted to say good-morning.”

 “But it’s not morning.”

 “I wanted to find out how a good-morning is meant to be said.”

 Shallan stepped aside, and waved him in.  Adolin glanced both ways down the hall before entering.  He stood, shuffling his feet, nervous fingers twisting at the waist-tie of his open dressing robe.  He had no neckcloth, and his shirt’s top two buttons were undone, as if he had been interrupted in the midst of changing his clothes.  Shallan’s own dress and bonnet and slippers lay on the floor in disarray.

 Shallan sat on the bed, and after a moment, Adolin cleared away the sketchbook and pen box; he sat down adjacent.  Shallan kicked her legs against the wooden frame of the bed, and cleared her throat.

 “That night in the forest – when I woke up, you had already gone,” she said.

 “I – I did not think it was proper.  And I did not want to present myself unfavourably.”  He looked down at his hands, and dropped the strings of his dressing robe.  “The Codes state that an officer must always be prepared at all times – he mustn’t tarry, and he must always maintain the standards of appearance.”  He was silent for a moment, and glanced over at her, and a shy smile tugged at his lips.  “I didn’t want you to take exception at my state.  So I went to shave.”

 “I do not mind it – it tickles.”  Shallan giggled and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.  A thought occurred, and she would have been timid in its enquiry in the past, but not now.  “What colour do your whiskers grow in?”

 “Oh – the same colour as my hair,” replied Adolin, taken somewhat aback at her question.  He could not know that she had pondered the answer to that very question – and others – the first time she had seen him, when she had been presented to him at the courtyard pavilion.  She could not have – could never have – guessed that she might find him alone with her in her room, on her bed, only days later.

 “Will you leave before dawn, then?”

 “I ought to.  The Feast would be ended – and duty calls.  The Codes would not allow me here, even now.”  He barked out a laugh, but it was hollow in its resentment.

 Shallan took his hand.  “If an assassin burst in through the wall or the window, I should think two pairs of hands would be better than one at catching him.”  She slipped her fingers through his and gave his hand a fierce squeeze; she met his eyes.  “I think your own father disregards the Codes when it suits him.”

 Adolin’s eyes widened.   “What do you mean?  How?”

 “Your father and the Queen Dowager have an … understanding.  I did not recognise it, until I recognised what true affection was truly like.  If he chooses to obey what Codes he finds reasonable, I cannot see why you should not do the same.  It is your own journey, and your destination,” she said, and then added, “if he grants you your choice of wife, it would not make sense for him to forbid you to see her.”

 “My ... wife,” said Adolin reluctantly.  They seemed unfamiliar words to describe an unfamiliar concept.  “You make much sense – all of it is true.”

 “I am well-known for my honesty,” Shallan said, smiling.  “Shall I blow out the lamps?”

 She did so, and Adolin helped by collecting and folding her abandoned clothing into a neat pile on top of her travelling trunk; he even went to close the canopy curtains.  When Shallan untucked the bed-cover and the blankets, Adolin made to slide in on the opposite side.

 “Wait,” she called.

 He started, and dropped the corner of the blanket.  “Do – do you want me to – should I leave?”

 “No,” Shallan laughed.  “No!  Your shoes are still are on, and ghillie boots have hobnails on the soles.  I do not think I could explain away the bloodstains on the bed if you kicked in your sleep and gashed my leg.”  She stifled a chuckle, and continued.  “Actually, I think I could explain it away, but it would not do either of us any favours.”

 Adolin blushed an exquisitely endearing red at that, and swiftly bent to unlace and throw off his shoes.  He got into the bed in his shirt and trousers; his socks were left on.  Shallan slipped in beneath the covers, and reached for his hand under the blanket. 

 “Good-night,” she whispered.

 “Good-night, Shallan,” he answered, and his toes in their woollen socks brushed against her bare feet.

 They agreed that whoever woke up first before dawn would wake the other to build a pillow barrier between the two sides of the bed, for propriety’s sake.  It did not do to go lax on the standards, of course.   Codes or not, at the end of every day – or the beginning of the next – gentle breeding won out.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Loss of social dignity" - just some period-realistic Regency flavour in there. Girls can't get away with nuthin', but guys can philander all they want if they're discrete about it (meaning no obvious illegitimacies), or if they're just really rich/powerful/connected. Which is why young ladies aren't supposed to commit unless they get a confirmation of commitment from the guy. Most people get married for economic reasons in that period. Any man with an income of over £4000 a year is considered extremely eligible. For the purposes of this story, Adolin has £60 000 a year as top ranking noble, and Kaladin gets £2000 as upper middle class.  
> "Aligning imagination to expectation" - winky wink. ;-) It has always been disappointing to me that Brandon Sanderson can't write believable romance. It's just so ambiguous that you are left wondering what just happened, and he says he does it on purpose. I always figured that realistically, young people will always be curious about these things, even in very strict Regency settings.  
> "Cut him straight to the marrow" - if you know a person after being introduced to him in the past, you have to acknowledge his presence every time you see him in a social situation, or you imply you are "cutting" him from your social network. Aka de-friending him publicly. Connections are super important in this era when there's no Facebook.  
> "New woman" - Imagine how many fun shenanigans could be had if Shallan was Veil with someone else other than Iyatil. Adolin would be very bad at disguises and go under the codename "Niloda".  
> "Miss Morakotha" - SA-canon Adolin dumped Danlan for smacktalking his family to her friends. I would like to imagine Danlan as the classic annoying romantic rival. Her maid should be equally annoying and encouraging of annoying behaviour.  
> On Kaladin and Shallan - Just because two people are honest and less guarded around each other, doesn't mean they are mutually romantically compatible. Maybe they could be, if they worked at it, but Shallan has more chemistry and instant attraction with Adolin.  
> "Love for a noble lady" - Kaladin is referencing Shallan's line "Noble ladies know that love and happy marriages are just foolish hopes".  
> "Utterly unsuitable" - Kaladin being always right must feel like a curse sometimes.  
> "The bawdy-house" - reference to Kaladin and Adolin and the courtesan in WoK.  
> "The Kujawiak shepherdess" - mentioned a few chapters ago, because where the heck is Bavland. In IRL Earth, it is a region called Kuyavia. Shallan's words translate to "If you love me, my heart is yours". They are the sweetest words you can say to your cudownego chłopaka, and they are guaranteed to make his heart go doki-doki.  
> Adolin is so pure and innocent when it comes to certain things that it's super cute. Military training never prepared him for any of this!


	18. XVIII

 Shallan rolled over.  Her burnt shoulder chafed against its wrappings.  The effects of Kaladin’s herbal paste had given out during the night; a crust had formed over the raw burnt patches on her skin, and now it felt as if the fine linen of the bandage was abrading it away.   She groaned, and her eyes opened. 

 The velvet canopy was closed, but a dim orange light – wan dawn sunlight – leaked in through a gap in the curtains.  There was a lump on the opposite end of the bed, and Shallan remembered where she was – and whose company she was sharing.  Still tired and wanting to return to sleep, she vaguely recalled the agreement from the previous night; she corrected herself: it had been very early that same morning.  She began to pile pillows to divide the bed into two halves.  The bed had more pillows than one really needed; it took some time to find all of them scattered in the dark, on the bed-cover and on the floor.

 Shallan tugged at a pillow underneath Adolin’s arm. 

 “Shallan…” he mumbled, eyes closed, fingers blindly groping for the missing pillow.

 “Good morning.”  She hadn’t meant to wake him.  She had rather wanted to let him continue sleeping, so she could watch him.  It was for nothing improper, of course – for artistic research purposes only!

 Adolin’s hand reached out and grabbed his pillow back, and the pillow wall separated; it developed an empty gap right where it had been the most necessary to ensure their mutual moral respectability. 

 Adolin hugged the pillow to his chest.  _“Mmm, Shallan,”_ he murmured sleepily, and sighed.

 Shallan covered her mouth to stifle her snickering.  She did not do a very good job, for Adolin’s eyelashes fluttered, and his eyes blinked, and he opened them and saw her sitting beside him, behind the half-toppled failure of a pillow divider.  He loosened his grip on the pillow, and scrubbed at his eyes, yawning.

 “Were you awake the whole time?” he asked.  He pulled himself up to a reclining position.  “Or do you never sleep, like Kal?”

 Shallan traced the edge of her bandage under a drooping flounce of her shift.  “No.  I was burned yesterday – it started hurting, and it woke me.”

 Adolin’s eyes flicked over to the white wrapping under her white shift.  “Is it a powder burn?  May I see?”

 Shallan unbuttoned her shift and pulled the fabric of the shoulder down; she felt Adolin’s gentle fingers loosening the bandage and pulling it open.  She turned away and closed her eyes.  The skin was warm and inflamed, and it had leaked a clear fluid that stuck to the fibres of the linen wrapping.  She could feel the sting when the dried crust of it separated from her swollen flesh.  She took a deep breath.  It was no worse than ether on a wound, and was by far less severe than the cut on her ribs. 

 “Kaladin says it will scar,” she said dully.

 Adolin tugged the bandage back up and drew her shift over her shoulder.  “We all have scars.  I do not count them a blemish.”

 “Everything my governess taught me about men I find is wrong at every turn,” Shallan said, a trace of a smile on her lips.  “It is a good thing I was never very fond of doing what I’m told.”

 “Powder burns are not that bad, as scars go.  Yours will heal up fine.”  Adolin dragged the bed curtain open a few inches to let in the warm dawn sunlight, and undid the button at his cuff; he rolled his right sleeve up to reveal the tanned flesh of his forearm.  “I have powder scars too.” 

 She saw that the smooth skin on the inside of his wrist was dusted with tiny specks of white; if she had not been told what to look for, she would not have seen anything unusual unless she had had the opportunity for a very close examination. 

 “Yours are more heroic,” said Adolin.  “I only have mine because I was careless – it was from my own pistol.”

 Shallan laughed, and fell back onto the bed.  “I scarcely consider myself heroic.  I was running away when it happened, and I did not do what I did to be a hero.”

 “You know, most officer casualties are from nobles trying to look like heroes.  Heroes are people who have the courage to do things for the right reasons – and not because they want to get their step.”

 Shallan rolled over; she turned to look at him through the gap in the pillows.  “You never wanted to be a Prince,” she whispered. 

 Adolin was silent for a moment.  “Not for any right reasons.”

 “It helps when you don’t think about the reasons, when you do not think of wrong or right or good or bad.  It’s easier that way – to do the things you want – and it often makes the best choice in the end.”  Shallan released the handful of blanket scrunched in her fist, and went on.  “I would rather be selfish than live in regret.  That is my right reason.”

 “I do not want to live in regret.”

 “No-one does.  The people who tell you what is right only do it so they do not feel regret themselves.  That you feel it matters little.” 

 These words of newfound truth constricted her throat with memories of feeling constricted – and helpless.  It explained why in her own life, she had been surrounded with people intent on controlling her, people who sought to guide her actions in paths that they had chosen – to satisfy their own visions of what was right and good.  These people – her father – _her mother_ – were so righteous in their self-assurance that they had become … monsters.  And they had not seen it, and she had not wanted to see it out of her own twisted love for them, and the people they had once been.

 She had twisted her own idea of love into a grotesque parody of its original intention, to match the grotesque transformation of her parents’ souls.  It was not how families were supposed to be.  It was not how love was supposed to be, nor how it was supposed to feel, and it had twisted her until she felt fear at the sight of it, and made her so that she flinched back at the touch of it, or at the mention of its name.  And this came to her, and she knew it, with a distressing certainty that prickled at her eyes and burned with acrid clarity on her tongue.

 The pillows between them moved aside and Adolin’s face peered down at her.  “How is it that you know this?”  She could sense the concern beneath his curiosity.

 “We all know it,” said Shallan, “but no-one ever speaks of it.  People just like going through life with the belief that they are the good people.  But the real good people are rare.”

 “I know that a good person is sitting right here on this bed.”

 Shallan laughed and laughed. 

 “Tell me,” she said, as she pulled apart the pillow wall and tossed them to the side, and off the bed.  “Do you think a good person would do this?”

 She sprang across the distance between them, throwing a leg over his stomach and sitting astride him with an unexpected suddenness that had all the air rushing out of him in a whoosh.  Adolin struggled to sit up from where he lay surrounded by abandoned pillows.  Shallan shoved him down again and swatted his hands away when he reached out for her. 

 “And what about this?” she asked, bending down and planting a rough kiss on his lips, her fingers scrabbling at the buttons of his shirt, tearing it open, and yanking his shirt-tails out of where he had tucked them into his trousers.  How did anyone go to sleep with their shirt tucked in and wake up with it still tucked?  Was there some ingenious pin or clip device inside the trousers?  She supposed she would have to check whenever an excuse presented itself.

 Her kisses were clumsy with the blundering muddle-headedness found in every morning of hers, especially an early morning like this.  When her mouth pressed against Adolin’s, it was not just a mingling of lips, but tooth and tongue and strands of her unbound hair that draped her face and his like a second set of canopy curtains.  It was another layer of concealment that made the outside world feel distant and detached, and made their inside world of fumbling intimacy feel warmly familiar, rather than an indecorous act of knavery.

 Shallan allowed Adolin to sit up so she could have his shirt off, and paused for a moment to admire the view.  His shoulders and chest could be described, if one was not particularly imaginative, as solid; they tapered to a trim waist that was very pleasingly ridged with muscle – and here Shallan blushed – with a faint trail of yellow and black hair that descended from his navel and disappeared from view at the band of his trouser belt.  She thought it rather curious – his chest was smooth, and the hair on his forearms was very light, mostly blond, and almost invisible.

 “Would a good person,” said Adolin, his hands on her waist tightening and swinging her off; her back hit the bed with a creak of the mattress ropes.  “Do this?”

 She all but dragged him atop her and his mouth found hers, and her knees gave a friendly squeeze to either side of his hips.  Adolin almost wrenched himself away at this, but she held him down; he buried his face into the hollow of her shoulder and gave a strangled groan.

  _“Shallan…”_

 “Good people must come from somewhere,” she said, “since spontaneous generation is—”

 His lips covered hers and she found she could not speak; she could barely think – no, she corrected herself – she could think.  But no thoughts of painful memories, or foreign saboteurs, or demanding countesses came to her; she thought of the young man in her arms who, though unpractised as she was, still managed to be gentle in his eagerness – he carried his weight in his shoulders and elbows to spare her bandaged ribs.  He was the young man – a young gentleman – who held open a door that she could step through if she chose:  a door that would lead to another life, another home, and another family.

 Shallan caught the sound of the door handle rattling.

 “Adolin,” she hissed, turning her head away.  He hadn’t appeared to have heard, being distracted by other things, so she repeated herself.  “Adolin.  _Adolin!_ ”

 He pushed himself up as the door opened – Shallan could see it through a gap in the curtains – and they heard the tread of a pair of feet that entered, and paused, and stopped only a short distance from the bed.

 “Hallo?” called out an uncertain voice.  “Is anyone there?”  Shallan recognised it as Finnie, her maid.

 She glanced at Adolin, and then seized a pillow and placed it in the middle of the bed; she did it with another, and Adolin picked up on the idea, and began snatching up pillows of his own. 

 The canopy curtain of the bed twitched; it was drawn back, and Finnie’s shocked face stared at them in surprise, her eyes darting from one equally shocked face to another.  Her mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again; a bundle of laundry and Shallan’s tartan shawl fell to the carpeted floor.  Shallan, who held a pillow in upraised hands, thought quickly.

 “Um.  _Pillow fight!”_ she said, and then whacked Adolin on the back with it.

 A feather flew out and drifted to the floor.

 

*** 

 

In the end, they sent Finnie to fetch Adolin’s valet for a change of clothes and any supplies necessary for ensuring a neat and presentable appearance.  It would appear rather – _exceedingly_ – questionable if a gentleman were to leave a lady’s bedchamber and walk through the House in his dressing robe early in the morning.  However, it would merely appear inconclusively respectable if the gentleman were to depart fully clothed and well-groomed.   If his rank made him first-rate within the peerage, then that would likely grant lenience enough that observers might accept it as an unconventionally early social call.  Perhaps a gentleman guest wished to leave his visiting card to a lady he had danced with the previous evening, before her carriage departed for the City.  Winks and nods were unavoidable, but they would not be sly winks and knowing nods.

 Adolin’s valet arrived with a valise, and they left for the bathing chamber to change and shave, leaving two boxes behind for Shallan.

 “They’re for you,” Adolin said, tying on his dressing robe.  He, thankfully, still had his trousers on.  His valet silently collected the discarded boots and shirt. 

 A valet, the gentleman’s gentleman, a master’s master-servant – that was a role that required loyalty and discretion, for gentlemen did not travel without their valets, and they often shared each other’s company with more frequency than the gentleman shared with his own wife.  The lady’s maid was an equivalent position, and the trust bestowed upon them by a Family member elevated them to the status of superior servant – below the retainer-rank of a land steward or a personal physician, but still highly prized, especially positions in the households of peers of the first rank.

 Shallan could trust Adolin’s valet not to gossip in the servants’ hall, even he did form his own assumptions and judge for himself what – or what had not – transpired between the two of them.  The problem was encountering other servants in the hallway, who would not be so restrained – and the real danger was running into other nobles’ personal servants who would undoubtedly tell their masters and mistresses about what had been seen or heard. 

 She knew City Society was run on threads of gossip passed up and down the ranks, and through various households when a lady of quality paid social calls with her maid, or her mother’s maid, in tow as chaperon.  It was only Loch Davar’s isolation and her father’s social reputation as irrevocably – _tainted_ – that had spared their being run through the gossip mill.   It had worked out to their benefit, fortunately:  the word of their insolvency had taken its time to get out – enough time for Jushu to quietly liquidate some of their assets for coal and food and other essentials, before the creditors could descend and leave them with absolutely nothing.

 When Adolin had gone, Shallan sat at her vanity feeling rather disappointed.  Finnie collected the pillows and the bed-cover that had slipped to the floor, making a tutting sound when she shook it out and saw the brown dirt streaked over it from Adolin’s riding boots the previous afternoon.

 “I hope you had a grand evening, my lady,” said Finnie.  There was no sign at all of criticism or condemnation in her voice.  She sounded _cheery._  

 “I’m sorry about the marks on the bed.”  Shallan looked at the boxes.  One was large and rectangular in shape, the size of a hatbox.  The second one was smaller and square, but no more than two inches in depth.

 “Oh, it is no bother,” the maid replied.  She stripped the sheets off the bed with the efficiency of long practice, and folded them into a rough pile on the floor.  “Was he very generous to you, my lady?”

 “We didn’t—” Shallan began indignantly, but then stopped.  She could deny anything she wanted to, but she could not deny how it must have looked.  Her own shift was half-unbuttoned, and its neckline gaped open.  She pulled it to the side and inspected her collar.  “He bit me, see?”

 Finnie’s hand rose up and covered an indulgent smile.   “Some men like that sort of thing, and some men are all take and no give,” she said, very mysteriously.  “But you can train them up if you mean to have them for a while.”

 “Like dogs?”

 Finnie opened the drawer and pulled out the roll of brushes.  One brush was missing from the set.  “Men are like hounds.”  She winked in the mirror.  “They can learn to bark at the dinner bell if you ring it long and loud enough.”

 “But I don’t have a bell to ring!”

 “It’s not a real bell, my lady.”

 “So how would I even train a man up, as you say?”

 “You have to know what you like,” answered Finnie.  “I s’pose.”

 Shallan frowned.  “But I don’t even know what I like!  I think I like all of it!  And I wouldn’t even know what there is to like!”

 “My lady, you will just have to try it and see, wouldn’t you?  Men are not very picky about these things, anyway.”

 Shallan was silent as Finnie brushed her hair and tied it into neat braids.  She lifted the lid of the larger box, and nestled in layered sheets of white tissue were her heeled satin dancing slippers that she had abandoned in the ballroom yesterday – when she had seen Kabsal, and had run from him.  The toes were scuffed from being stepped on multiple times by Kaladin, but they looked salvageable, at least after a thorough brushing and a touch of soda.

 “He brought me my shoes,” said Shallan softly.  She dropped the lid back down over the box.  “In a lady’s serialised adventure, he would have put them on my feet.  But I suppose that is something Princes do, and Adolin is only a Duke.” 

  _Only a Duke._  

 She would still have liked him, and felt affection for him, even if he was no Duke.  Even if he was just a stablehand, or just a soldier … or just a surgeon.  She never could have married him, of course – but if she knew how it was to enjoy the company of a good man, she could never have been satisfied with the company of an intolerable one, even if he might be her lawful husband.  Malise could not have known, thought Shallan suddenly.

 She opened the second, smaller box.  In it was a silver chain necklace, of simple design.  Each link clinked with the clear ringing of pure silver.  It almost looked like that aluminium necklace her father had presented her with years ago, but where that necklace was light and silvery, this necklace was heavy and cold, and her hand trembled when she lifted it out of the blue velvet cloth wrappings and turned it over in her hands. 

 There were the tiniest of scratches on the links and clasp, signs that it had been polished multiple times in the past, but it was still in very good condition and they were scarcely noticeable.  It was not the most extravagant of gifts – a chain of the same size in aluminium or gold would have been much dearer, and this one had been worn by someone else before Adolin had given it to her.

 “Will you wear it, my lady?” Finnie asked, when Shallan had not said anything for some time. 

 “Yes.”

 She did not think Adolin would give gifts for the sake of giving them – not to her, at least.  The depth of affection he felt, she was sure, would rather lead to his being extraordinarily careful in his treatment of her.  Gifts between gentlemen and ladies were not just gifts, but messages, and often these messages were promises.  Promises that could not hold up in any court of law – they were, nevertheless, assurances of commitment; when poorly done, they had the potential to result in misrepresentation and a humiliating disgrace, usually heaped upon the lesser ranking party. 

So.  Adolin would not risk anything poorly done, and he would not act without genuine meaning and intention, even if she had perceived that he was not one markedly prone to deliberation before action.  He had already made an offer, and she had accepted it.  It would not hurt if this was just a demonstration of good faith and feeling in his proposition.  How fitting it was, Shallan mused, as the necklace was clasped around her throat, that it came in the form of a chain.

 “It is very beautiful, my lady,” said Finnie.  “Is it a courting gift?  It is generous indeed – many girls get nothing more than a ribbon and a nosegay from their young men.”

 “It’s not a courting gift.”

 “Oh.”  The maid hesitated as she brought a dress from the wardrobe and shook it out.  “If it is a parting gift, you will be well set-up for your trouble.”

 Shallan stood and pulled her shift over her head, and looked at her own reflection in the mirror.  Her chest was swathed in bandage, and so was her shoulder; her collar bore a small pink mark of dubious origin, and around her neck hung a chain.  She was very different to the Shallan who had arrived a little longer than week ago, and very different to the Shallan of Loch Davar.  In Scotland, she had worn a different chain, one that was light in weight, but heavy on the mind.

 She spoke.  “It is no parting gift either.”

 Finnie laced her bodice and helped her into a clean underdress with a high collar.  “Is it—”

 “Yes.”

 “Oh – my lady!  Congratulations!  I always thought that gentlemen often need a nudge in the right direction—” she glanced at the bed.  “—To make up their minds.”  She straightened Shallan’s collar, smiling.  “It is a shame to hide the necklace – but we must cover up that mark of yours.”

 “They will say I seduced him into a – an arrangement,” Shallan sighed, and stepped into the dress of the day.

 “Didn’t you, my lady?” 

 “No!  I would not have – I would never have – it would not be proper!”  Shallan flushed, and her ears warmed.  Propriety seemed a foreign concept when she was in the presence of those who shared with her a mutual familiarity.  It was one thing with Kaladin, when she did not bother with the careful observation of social protocol, and another thing with Adolin, when she could not remember anything of the standards of decency and indecency upon which polite civilisation had been founded.

 “Well, my lady,” said Finnie calmly, buttoning Shallan up, “when you are Duchess you will be beyond reproach.  And they will be upset at themselves for not thinking of it sooner.”

  _“When I am Duchess…”_ Shallan whispered.  Then, remembering something, she went to her travelling trunk at the foot of her bed.  Adolin had folded her clothes in the evening, when she had invited him in, and on top of the knit bonnet were the two bits of paper.  One was the visiting card with the printed design of three diamonds – she tucked that one into her sleeve – and the other was the wagering slip from the bookmaker belowstairs.  “Here, for you,” she said, holding it out to her maid.

 Finnie took it, and scanned the numbers on the paper.  She looked up at Shallan and down again, and covered her mouth.  “You had it made out to me?”

 “You were the one who told me that the men were running a book.”

 “But – my lady!  Thirty-five spheres sterling – that’s over a year’s—”

 “Please.  I would be grateful for your discretion.”  Shallan thought of the best way to phrase it.  There were really no good ways, for this was a subject that was not discussed aloud, and never near the gentle ears of gentle ladies.  She went for the suggestively opaque approach.  “And perhaps later, your advice.”

 “Advice?  What on, my lady?”

 “On – gentlemen.  I haven’t ever—”

 “You didn’t—?”

 “No!”

 “Surely His Lordship has, erm, in the past, managed…”  Finnie seemed quite abashed in her speech; she struggled with the words – it was not the place of a servant to make comment on their employer’s habits, or speculate on what was done in privacy by their betters.

 Adolin did not seem the type – not when he had had so much trouble proving his fondness at The Sign of the White Boar.  If he had only kissed girls he was truly fond of, what sentiments would be required for _that?_   If had confessed a singular depth of emotion for anyone else, surely he would have been married by now. 

 The social mores expected that both parties, gentlemen and ladies, would indulge in indecency only when it was ceremonially declared no longer an indecency.  But gentlemen, especially those born with rank and privilege, were not required to be constantly accompanied by chaperons.  Not when they held positions as soldiers and officers, away from their own homes and firesides and the structured social rigidity of the City.

 The warcamps of the marshlands had their own rules and expectations, and most of them were concerned with the effectiveness of leadership rather than the moral purity of the officers.  They were expected to fight to kill, and be surrounded by death:  of enemies, and comrades, and civilians, and beasts of burden.   Whilst they were on the front, they would be given license to indulge – and Shallan knew that the majority of ether-wretches were those who had seen combat.  A blind eye would be turned, so long as they reported to duty with punctuality the next day.  The Prince Kholinar was considered the strange one for being a staunch and inflexible proponent of both superior morality and superior effectiveness.

 And Adolin had shown embarrassment at the mention of bawdy-houses. 

 “I do not think it likely,” said Shallan, blushing furiously. 

 “Hmm.”  Finnie put away Shallan’s black dress from the evening before.  “Beg your pardon for prying, but how far have you gotten, my lady?

 “Oh – just kissing,” Shallan said, red-faced.  “I know what happens next, of course.  But in the books, the chapter always ends when they kiss.  What occurs in between?  Is there even anything between this and – _that?”_

 “Plenty, my lady,” said Finnie, confidently. 

 Shallan felt much better at this, although she was concerned at the state of her own ignorance.  The ladies’ novels ended with a kiss, and if there was an epilogue, it showed the lady and her gentleman happily married.  She had long surmised that there was an intervening step – or steps – but no-one had told her what they were, apart from the very unromantic mechanics of ... heredity.  She could imagine herself kissing Adolin, quite vividly so, and she supposed she could imagine herself engaged in the associated procedures necessary to fulfil contractual obligations, but she could not begin to imagine how one got from one point to the other.  She could only presume it was extremely embarrassing for both parties involved.  No wonder such things were commonly managed in darkness.

 A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts.  Finnie went to answer it.

 “Shallan,” said Adolin.  He passed Finnie at the door, and when he reached Shallan, he embraced her, and she pressed herself against him and breathed in the spiced herbal scent of his toilet water.  He looked very proper and dignified when he wore his crisply pressed regimental uniform as he was now; it made a charming contrast with his cheerful and open-featured face, and his softly tousled hair.  But she had seen him stained with gunpowder soot and her own blood, and she had not found that objectionable.

 “Good morning,” Shallan said.  “I suppose it is only good – but it could have been better.”

 She laughed, and Adolin's arms tightened around her.  “It is good, then, that a good morning can be had every day.”

 “I think it would be better with breakfast.”

 

*** 

 

Shallan and Adolin took their time ambling through the hallways, passing servants and soldiers in blue uniforms bearing muskets.  The servants bowed to Adolin as they went by, both those in ducal livery, and those who wore the colours of another house.  Shallan looked down and picked at the buckle of her satchel – she had brought it, with the papers tucked inside, in preparation for the appointment that had been agreed upon the evening before.  She did not meet their eyes, nor the eyes of the soldiers who greeted Adolin with a hand-to-breast salute.  There was still a part of her that saw herself as ungainly and plain; it caused her to feel self-conscious in the face of unconcealed scrutiny.  Her recent realisations of identity and self-awareness were still raw within her, and they were still changing into something else, something different – and even though she did not shrink away, she could not bear what she knew was an attentive assessment of her character and her connections – and her relationship to the Duke.

 If she had had the time brace herself, to analyse their persons and their perceptions, she would have been able to construct a face in order to portray the young lady of confidence and poise who showed herself unambiguously to be Adolin’s match and equal.  But these servants and low-ranking soldiers were not nobles or gentry, those whose expectations she was familiar enough that appearing poised and assured was merely second nature.  No, they were people whose entire existence, whose thoughts and opinions and sentiments, she had mostly overlooked or dismissed as beneath notice. 

 So she found herself suddenly shy – she had been one of them only an evening ago – and was glad that Adolin was by her side.  He was polite and friendly to everyone:  he knew what words to say when Shallan groped for the words they expected to hear.  She knew Adolin bore the chains of perception as she did, but the natural ease he had with people was his own; it was not artificial, for it was the part of him that made him good-natured to the core, and she admired that in him, and she liked it – she liked it quite a lot.

 They made their way downstairs, expecting the foyer to be abuzz with personal servants bearing travelling valises and carpet bags to the waiting carriages outside.  It was half a day’s ride from Kholinar Court to the City; the ladies and gentlemen guests would have the leisure to sleep off the unseemly effects of overconsumption before returning to their own town houses.

 There were servants, yes, and they were loading the carriages by the portico, but there were new people arriving.  They were all soldiers in the blue and white of the Kholin Regiments – short blue jackets with double rows of buttons and the shield-shaped patch of the Duke’s arms high on their shoulders.  They all had muskets, and had powder horns slung from their white belt webbings, and they were shod in short hobnailed leather shoes that looked like simpler copies of Adolin’s ghillie boots.  

 When she and Adolin reached the top of the stairs at the head of the foyer, still hung with decorative banners, she was startled by the shrilling of a tin whistle.  The soldiers stamped their feet to attention and brought their muskets around to bear, and saluted Adolin in perfect unison.  A man – in regimental frock coat and an officer’s epaulets – detached himself from the group and strode up the stairs, two at a time.  He saluted Adolin smartly, and seeing Shallan at his side, wavered for a second, then gave her a cursory bow; Shallan thought it rather more functional than courtly.

 “Lieutenant Colonel, sir,” he said.

 “Major Khal,” said Adolin.  “I see you got my letter.”

 “Three days ago, sir.  We were to discuss – the re-organisation.  And that other matter.”

 “Yes,” said Adolin.  “As I promised.  Father is here, and the rest of the brass.  I shall see to it; you have my word.”

 Major Khal seemed suddenly very pleased at that; he relaxed perceptibly.  “The men, sir?  We received a summons last night, ordering the whole company to march – and we marched until dawn to get here.  I had only planned to bring the staff officers, knowing the quarters were limited.”

 “You may have the use of the tents on the front lawns for a mess.  The couriers’ barracks in the stableyard for the men – you may have to pitch your own tents on the courtyard.  The officers are to have what guestrooms have been vacated; ask the housekeeper for pallets in the antechambers if they cannot all fit.  Make free with the kitchens.  We are well-stocked on food.” 

 Adolin rattled off orders with a comfortable authority that Shallan had never seen from him before.  Jasnah displayed that trait at all times; it was evident in her serene bearing and refined carriage, and it dripped off every word she spoke.  Kaladin had a certain amount of it too, but it was mostly in the form of a particularly irritating – and smugly knowing – arrogance.  Adolin had always been brightly convivial with her in company – and in private, he was thoughtful, and gentle, and – responsive.  She almost blushed, but caught herself in time.  This was a side of him, Shallan speculated, that was the product of years of martial education, just as she had been moulded by her own years of feminine education.

 “Two platoons to secure the perimeter and relieve the Prince’s personal guards – have the adjutant run up a watch rotation for the essentials,” continued Adolin.  “Marksmen by the gatehouse, of course, and ensure all who enter and leave are identified.  Assign a cavalry patrol on the road, a five-mile sweep north to Courtlea, and south to the Forest.”

 Major Khal nodded, and opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by the butler and under-butler who had managed to slide up soundlessly by Adolin’s elbow.  The butler cleared his throat.  Major Khal shut his mouth and rolled his eyes upward, and then muttered something that sounded suspiciously like _civvies_.

 “My lord, there are soldiers everywhere!” cried the butler.  The under-butler whipped out his wallet diary.  “Whatever are we to do with them?  This House is no barracks – they ought to have been quartered in the village!”

 “They are here for the protection of the guests,” said Adolin calmly.  “You shall do as Major Khal asks.  For what reason would a Grand House be called ‘grand’ if it cannot even match the hospitality of Fort Shulin?”

 The butler bowed, aware of his being gently chastened.  “Of course, my lord.  We shall uphold the honour of the Court, as you desire.  The extra help will be kept on, sir?”

 “Do whatever you deem necessary to help Major Khal,” Adolin said.  Major Khal inclined his head in polite acknowledgement.  Shallan notice him glancing at her out of the corner of his eye; he probably thought her just another of the Duke’s girls.  “And arrangements for breakfast?”

 “Lady Jasnah has requested breakfast with Lady Shallan in the Teal Room at her earliest convenience.  We are sending up trays to the rest of the Family in their quarters, if you should like one, my lord.”

 “I shall join Lady Shallan.  Please have food sent out to the tents for the men – if there is no soup or porridge, then make do with what’s left from the Feast.” 

 The butler bowed once more to Adolin, his face twisting into a look of panic.  The under-butler frowned, and exchanged a silent signal with the butler; he glanced at the ranks of soldiers in the foyer – still standing at parade attention – and bowed, and withdrew.  When he reached the end of the hall, he leaped unexpectedly into a sprint.  Adolin took Shallan’s hand and they walked back upstairs to the Teal Room.  Major Khal and the butler watched them take their leave, hand in hand, with quizzical – no, bemused – expressions on their faces. 

 A gentleman accompanying a lady typically led her by the arm, and refrained from skin contact, for to do otherwise was an unmistakeable acknowledgement of familiarity – and a not so subtle hint of a present or future attachment.  Shallan knew all of that.  When she held Adolin’s hand, things around them seemed to hold less relevance; they seemed less important, less real.  They were also decidedly less colourful, and when she glanced at the passers-by passing by, she could tell nothing of them but the superficial; it was a stark contrast to when she looked at Adolin, and unspoken words and understanding skipped back and forth through their linked hands.

 A footman held open the door of the Teal Room for them; he didn’t bat an eye at the appearance of an extra, unaccounted for guest, which in most situations would have led to an awkward pause as extra table settings or even a larger table were sent for.  Perhaps the under-butler had managed to send warning beforehand.  Active anticipation and preparation for the Family’s needs before they ever reached a distinct awareness of needing was the means through which superior servants earned their keep and their rank in the belowstairs hierarchy. 

 Jasnah was sitting at the dining table, flipping through a sheaf of papers bound inside a waxed leather folio.  She looked up and saw Shallan, and then her eyes flicked to Adolin, who held her hand in his.  Her lips twitched with an inscrutable emotion, and with the barest hint of haughty resignation, she rose to her feet and offered a shallow bow to Adolin – to politely acknowledge his rank as a social equal and, Shallan knew, as one worthy of respect.

 Adolin returned her bow, and kissed her on both cheeks, and murmured ‘Cousin’ to her, for he not only had to observe the rules of decorum for Jasnah as Countess, and social co-hostess, and also as a scion of House Kholin who shared his blood.

 “Shallan, I expected to see you in the Family’s apartments yesterday evening, to hear your report on that unfortunate incident,” said Jasnah, seating herself at the table, and handing off her papers to the footman who shook out her napkin and placed it over her lap. 

 Shallan waited for Adolin to push in her chair and find his own seat.  “I’m afraid I was not – presentable at the time.  And I am not Family.”

 Jasnah’s eyes flicked from Shallan and Adolin and back, and she smiled at them as a cup of clear beef broth was placed in front of them, followed by the arrival of the toast racks and pots of preserves.  “And Cousin Adolin – I looked for your presence too, to hear the report from your men.  I stayed up rather late and all I had to entertain me in the early hours was watching your brother trounce my brother at draughts.”  A perfect eyebrow arched upward.  “I rather think gambling would be best avoided with either of them.”

 Adolin laughed, and drained his teacup.  “Most men look to the battlefield to enhance their fortunes, but I think Renarin does it well enough with a ledger book.”

 “And no-one seems to have noticed,” replied Jasnah, segmenting her peeled grapefruit.  “But your presence – or your lack of it – was noticed last evening.  I hope to hear an explanation, and sincerely hope it will not disappoint me.”  Her eyes fell on Shallan, and she pursed her red-painted lips. 

 Shallan knew what Jasnah expected of her – a confirmation, and a truthful one.  One of the conditions of Shallan’s being taken on as ward was to never lie to, or steal from the Countess; scholars were immensely protective of their unpublished research findings, their libraries of resources, and their rare primary documents. 

 “Adolin spent the night with me.”

 That was the truth, and it was better just to be transparent about it than to let worse presumptions spring to life around an ambiguous half-truth.  But she winced when she heard herself aloud.  That was rather too transparent, and it said so much more than a deliberately enigmatic half-answer could ever say.

 Adolin flushed a very charming shade of pink and looked at Shallan and then down at his plate.  He did not deny it; it would not be gentlemanly because it was true, even if certain _occurrences_ had not managed to transpire; a vehement denial would only make it all the more evident that something indecent had happened.  One of Jasnah’s perfectly arched brows rose, and then it was followed by the other, and a thoughtful smile spread across her face.  She covered it up with a slow sip from her teacup, and silence passed between them.  Shallan could imagine that the footmen’s ears were almost twitching with the desire to hear what was said next.

 “Cousin?” prompted Jasnah, after a while.

 “It was no indecency – I proposed my intentions first, and they were accepted.  I do not mean to put Shallan – Lady Shallan – in an undignified position.  It would not be honourable,” Adolin said, face reddening, eyes flicking to the table and the moulding on the ceiling, and the paintings on the wall behind his cousin.

 “We are affianced,” said Shallan, her voice flat.  “There it is.”

 “My goodness,” remarked Jasnah, amused.  “After only a bit more than a week.  Congratulations.”  Shallan did not for one second believe it was an honest expression of joy at any impending nuptials; she was confirmed in her sentiments when Jasnah went on.  “I could not have done a better job of it myself.  You have done very well for yourself, Shallan.”

 “I did not do it for you.  Or even for me,” Shallan said.  Her hand dropped under the table and searched for Adolin’s.  She found it, and squeezed it, and his calloused fingers squeezed back.  Above the table, Adolin sent her a grateful smile that had her hidden doves all a-flutter with the genuine fondness in his gaze.  “I shan't be joining you at Ivory Lane.”

 “I should not expect you to.  Not until after you—” Shallan glared at the Countess, who cleared her throat and continued.  “Adolin, your father has called a meeting for House Kholin and attached functionaries, scheduled for after breakfast.  You would know this if you had been—” Jasnah paused, and saw that neither Shallan nor Adolin were in a mood to be chided in the manner of misbehaving children.  They, as they were now, were anything but.  “You must make the announcement then.  Shallan will be welcome, as a Family member rather than my ward.  I shall require her assistance for my own presentation.  Your father has decided to share his own – conclusions.”

 “After last night, his suspicions will be proven as fact.”  Adolin dug into his omelette.  He looked at Jasnah.  “What Shallan found – in the forest – and these men, these false Ardents.  They were no coincidence?”

 “No.”

 “Does Father know?”

 “If he doesn’t already, he shall know soon.”

 “Why wasn’t I told earlier?”

 Shallan met Jasnah’s eyes.  She could tell what Jasnah wanted to say, but she did not want Adolin to hear it.  She said what she thought was true, instead.  “Because no-one would have believed us.  They would have said we were gone soft like your cousin the King – or your father.  We had no proof, and had not expected the proof to find us so suddenly.”

 Adolin looked at both of them, and his knee brushed against Shallan’s skirts.  “Next time, I think I deserve to know.”

 “You do.  I will tell you all I can,” said Shallan.

 Adolin seemed to accept that as an answer.  If it were Kaladin, he would have been more discriminating in his securing of an explanation.  Because Kaladin did not trust anyone, even if he was fond of a few specific people.  He would trust that they were likely to behave in certain predictable patterns, and he might find them trustworthy, and worthy of trust, but he could not allow himself to trust entirely in their judgement.  Adolin had faith in her.  And that gave her reason to find faith in herself.

 So she told him about Jasnah’s research – the vague outlines of her hypotheses, concerning the search for lost relics of the legendary Heralds.  Jasnah ventured no comment, nor did she volunteer any explanation on the details; she merely dismissed the servants from the room and sat silently observing, and Shallan recognised it for a test of her memory and her discretion.  Adolin did not even blink when Shallan mentioned the potentially questionable parts of their research: the folk tales and religious myths regarding the Almighty and His eternal opposition.  He did not declaim them as presumptuous anti-zealots, as those even the least bit devoted to Vorinism would have done.  He nodded, and when she was finished – Shallan had not told him about Kabsal, or the visiting card she had been given an evening before – he informed them that he had already known most of it.  For his Aunt Navani had often made disparaging remarks in her correspondence, about Jasnah’s wilfully squandering the generous dowry bestowed upon her by her late father – on excursions abroad, or buying antique children’s books at auction.

 “I am appreciative of your honesty, Shallan,” Adolin said at last.  “Though I must admit that this whole time you have been perfectly honest, even if you did spare me much of the detail.”

 “Honest?  Was I?” said Shallan, shocked but not daring to show a flicker of it in her expression.

 “Yes.  When you said there was a lost treasure in the forest, you were being truthful in that.  If you had told the truth – of Heralds’ relics, it would have been so truthful that I do not think I would have believed you.” 

 “And we ended up coming away empty-handed.”  Shallan picked at the crust of toast on her plate, sighing.

 “I would not say that.”

 And Adolin grinned, and in that he was perfectly honest too.  He was also perfectly guileless, and it was enough to make Jasnah roll her eyes at the unseemly display of affection.  If Jasnah could not find enjoyment in the company of men, and only tolerated them with painful sufferance – even her own blood cousin – Shallan did not see why she herself should live by the same standards.  In her own life, she had seen that men and women both were capable of terrible deeds, and they did not have to take the form of physical agony, such as a knife drawn over the ribs, or a gunshot in the dark.  No, in her early life, the miseries she had felt had not been physical; she was certain if they had, they would have been so much easier to bear – and to heal.

 She thus felt an incipient twinge of impatience for Jasnah’s attitude toward Adolin.  Not all men were bad, just as all men were not good.  Jasnah did not even consider her uncle the Prince Dalinar a good man, for he was a man; she thought him adequate, more tolerable than most; she respected his habit of keeping by his word, and reading certain books long gone out of favour – but she had not trusted him with her confidences. 

 Shallan found she disagreed with Jasnah in this – and she had not often disagreed with her teacher and mentor, and never vocally.  But lately she had been disagreeing with Jasnah more and more, usually with regards to her treatment of other people, which Shallan considered approached coarseness even if Jasnah followed the letter of etiquette, and her words could never be considered rude or cutting, not even by the most fastidious of Society matrons.  It was something in her intonation that suggested she would happily cut those she addressed if she could – if she had not needed their connections, or their influence, for some goal or other of hers.

 “We might join the rest of the Family in the library,” said Jasnah, setting down her teacup with a barest clink of the saucer.  “They will have had breakfast themselves by now – we all of us had a late night.  The guards wouldn’t let us return to our own rooms until they had searched them thoroughly.”  She shot Adolin a pointed look.  “Perhaps you might have your handlers brush your dogs once in a while.  I frankly do not enjoy having hair on my pillows that is not my own.”

 When they reached the library – the same one Shallan had visited with Kaladin in her search for astronomy charts – they observed that most of the attendees had already arrived, with only a handful of latecomers hurriedly filtering in.  The room was awash in a sea of blue uniforms – there were no servants; guards in the short jackets of common soldiers had the door, and stood by the windows.  They saluted Adolin upon identifying him; his hair was quite distinctive, and he wore the long coat of an officer.

 The Family members and their highest ranking associates were gathered around the map table.  The top panels of the table had been unfolded to reveal a detailed topographic map of Anglekar and the Anglethi Isles, and the north and western coasts of the East Continent.  Small figurines were placed around the map in strategic locations; they bore the shapes of miniature soldiers in blue, and ships in blue, and forts, and cannons, and horses. 

 Orderlies in blue uniforms circulated amongst the seated high officers and nobility, offering cups of tea from the samovar whistling away on a folding table.  Shallan took a cup, and grimaced when she sipped it.  It was tea, but thickly brewed and laced with powdered ridgebark, dreadfully bitter and alkaline on the tongue.  Ridgebark had the effect of temporarily awakening the senses and staving off fatigue; it was similar in that way to the much more palatable coffee – but coffee was an expensive imported indulgence and, Shallan supposed, very hard to find when one was on the battlefield for a campaign.  Soldiers would be acclimated to the taste of it, for they were eagerly wanting of the alertness it brought.  But it was an acquired taste, and Shallan had not acquired it.  She set her cup aside.

 “We bring this meeting to order,” announced Prince Dalinar, standing at the head of the table.  He sat down, and there was a rustle and creak as those who had precedence sat down as well; the junior officers and common soldiers stood in ranks behind and around.  Shallan had her own chair with Adolin on her right hand, and Jasnah on her left.  Jasnah’s folio of pages lay open on the table in front of her.  Kaladin, a warrant officer, did not have a seat, she noticed.  He stood at the front rank, behind Renarin and Major Khal seated opposite her.

 “The events of last night have proved that my suspicious of foreign saboteurs are not unfounded,” said Dalinar.  “We were attacked, and we were unprepared – and we cannot – _we shall not_ – let this go ignored.”  He glanced at the man on his right, and Shallan felt a small pang of shock as she realised that the man was the King. 

 King Elhokar did not much resemble Jasnah, apart from the typical Anglethi tendency toward long limbs and lofty stature, and a similar colouring to their complexion and hair.  He could be considered handsome with his even features and attentive grooming, but there was no outward appearance of aloof severity in him that both Jasnah and her mother the Queen Dowager Navani possessed.  Neither did he have the charisma or almost-palpable presence of his uncle Dalinar.  He did not deliberately shrink away from sight, or unintentionally avoid detection in that curious manner of Renarin’s, but there was something, or a lack of something in him, that made one consider him somehow less important than the people around him; he was simply not very worthy of a second glance once one had graced him with a perfunctory first. 

 Shallan did not pay much attention to Dalinar’s greetings of all his senior officers and staff, or his rousting speech describing the events of last night – she already knew what had happened, and very intimately so.  She watched the King.  His eyes had dark rings pouching underneath from a lack of sleep, and his hands dipped under the table to bring out a silver flask; he tipped some of its contents into his ridgebark tea.  Shallan did not think it a particularly healthful habit, especially not this early in the morning, and she saw Kaladin eyeing it with one brow quirked up in bemusement; he looked at her, and their eyes met, and she looked away.  The king, she could see, wore no officer’s uniform, only a modishly cut day suit with a coat of finely combed dark blue wool, with starched collar and a snowy, layered neckcloth.  He did not even wear a crown or circlet, because he was not attending a social gala, nor was he presiding over his Royal Court.  Courtly protocol demanded proper observation of courtly styles and formalities, but this was officially only a Family meeting.

 “…One recent incident involving these assassins was brought to my attention,” said Dalinar.  “My niece Jasnah was tangentially involved.  These are no mere hired killers – they had an ulterior motive.  Jasnah?”

 Jasnah rose to her feet to the polite, but definitely far from friendly acknowledgment of the ranked officers.  She explained the purposes of her research – again, a vague explanation much like Shallan’s – which was familiar to a number of people.  Lady Navani’s lacquered fingernails tapped against the tabletop in restless impatience. 

 “The rumour of incredible wealth hidden by the ancients,” Jasnah said, not the least bit ruffled by the cool reception from the assorted guests.  “Drew the eyes of these foreigners.  There must be some substance to the stories – if they were worth sending an investigative – and invasive – party to the King’s own Home Counties.”

 There was silence.  The officers glanced at one another and then at Prince Dalinar.  The King was not even appearing to pay attention; he stirred his tea with a silver teaspoon and occasionally turned his head to peer out through the window. Then Doctor Kaladin cleared his throat, and Adolin spoke.

 “I myself have seen the results of these assassins’ interest,” he said, “and I do not dismiss them as hysteric fancies.  There _is_ a hidden treasure, and though our first excursion found us leaving without answers, the soldiers I sent to reconnoitre and patrol the Kholinshire Forest _did_ find something noteworthy.  Mr Karsten, if you please?”

 Karsten, the groundskeeper in mottled green-grey, pushed through the crowd of officers, bearing a sack in one hand.  To Adolin’s nod of approval, he set the mysterious parcel on the table in front of Dalinar.  Karsten unknotted the twine at the top, and the burlap sacking dropped open to reveal a lantern with curved glass sides and a gold frame.  There was no oil reservoir, and no wick; inside was a rough chunk of colourless glass or lead crystal clamped to a small stand.  

 “Doctor Kaladin first observed that there were strange lanterns in the ancient structure we found in the Forest,” continued Adolin.  “And when I sent men back to look further, we found that these lanterns were truly strange – beyond our expectations.  These lanterns were brought back, and I had them assayed.  The stone inside is diamond.”

 Karsten flicked open a latch on the side and pulled out the diamond.  From his belt he drew his working knife, of a plain make with a worn leather-bound handle – but the blade was of quality steel.  The groundskeeper scraped the very roughly faceted diamond down the blade and held it up – a deep scratch marred the silvery finish of its side.  The officers began to mutter.

 “There is something of value in Jasnah’s research, though perhaps it is not as exciting as a long-lost sword of heroes,” said Adolin.  “But it is enough to inspire greed from foreign eyes.  Doctor Kaladin?”

 Kaladin stepped forward, and spoke.  “We arrested all the Ardents who were guests to last evening’s Feast.  Most of them, including Brother Kadash, were nothing more than simple Courtlea clerics who were released after a search and interrogation.  There were three others that attempted to run when we sent guards to collect them from the ballroom, and we set the dogs when they tried to escape onto the estate grounds.

 “One got away – there was a coach prepared for a getaway on the road to Courtlea, before we had even set a cavalry patrol.  The second one we found dead on the grounds with a broken ankle – he had done away with himself before we could capture him.  The third we brought in for questioning.  He spoke a Continental tongue, and when we gave no guarantee of a future repatriation, poisoned himself with a capsule hidden in a false tooth.  And the last, the tattooed one killed in the retiring room.  There may be more, but we do not know for certain.”

 “I have heard enough. Gentlemen,” said Dalinar, gravely.  He stood.  “We must prepare for war.”

 The library was in uproar after his solemn announcement.

 When the atmosphere had calmed slightly – it was still tense with a strained and gnawing apprehension – Dalinar spoke again.  “War with the Continent is inevitable.  We felt the first tremors in the colonies, and saw evidence of foreign interference in Ireland.  My brother’s death six years ago started a war we were not entirely prepared for.  My nephew’s death would have started another.  But we have the opportunity now – to prepare properly.”

“I will gather the Dukes, and we will have one last push against the marshpeople.  One final and conclusive victory to whet the appetite for new victories – and then the front shall be moved to the Continent.  Admiral Teleb, have the _HMS Cobalt Guardian_ brought out of dry-dock.”  He took up a stick with a hooked end and pushed the statuettes across the map table.  “We must have the _Stormwarden_ , the _Countess von Iriale_ , and _Sunraiser_ refitted as transports.  The Home Regiments must be split, and Major Khal has the landing – we shall choose Flanders for our base of operations; for now it is neutral ground and will not violate any treaties extant.  Adolin, you will return to the marshlands with me—”

 “No.”

The background hum of conversation cut off abruptly.  Adolin looked around, then pushed his chair back.

 “Soldier?” asked Dalinar.  He set the stick down, and straightened.  His bearing was forbidding and his face grim; he was clearly unused to being contradicted.

 “You cannot gather the Dukes when you are away.  Parliament does not respond to promises and cajoling.  They are as flighty children – their attention wanders and they forget themselves as soon as something else comes along,” said Adolin quietly.  His words fell into the silence; they swiftly dissipated in the uneasy emptiness.  “You must unite them, Father – you must show them the fist beneath the glove – and you must stay to do it.”

 Dalinar nodded slowly.  “Proceed.”

 “We haven’t the resources on hand – the last war has drained us – for an immediate display of aggression.  We must fight defensively, at least at first, and use geography to our benefit.  Blockade the Channel, offer letters of marque, cut off their golden lifeblood, and amass our own men, and ships, and allies until we can have our great push from Flanders.  Bide our time, and in the meanwhile show them why the Anglethi Navy is the best in the world.”

 Adolin exchanged a glance with Major Khal, and continued.  “Major Khal is to have his step to Lieutenant Colonel, and he shall join his father the Field Marshal, in Ireland.  They have worked in concert before – their mutual experience in coordinated pushes and retreats will serve to advantage, and will show a fine example to the other ducal regiments.  Father, you must be the one to call the muster.  When the men come at the drums to take the King’s shilling, they must be shown why.”

 The Prince Dalinar’s disciplined stance relaxed ever so slightly.  He pushed the stick over the table to Adolin, and calmly found his seat.  “You have finished the book, then?”

 “I finished it years ago.  It is only recently that I have come to understand its meaning,” said Adolin, his hand reaching out and reluctantly picking up the hooked wooden stick.  He brought it to the map table and rearranged the figurines, placing the ships in the Channel between Kholinshire and Roionshire and the north coast of the Continent.

 “And soldier – what of you?” 

 This was the question that Shallan had been wondering.  Adolin had made strategic decisions for the other major players.  All, excepting himself.

 Adolin drew a slow breath.  Then he looked down at Shallan, whose slippered foot pressed against his own boots under the table.   He smiled, and there was bright and tender affection for her in his blue eyes, and something else that lurked within them that was hard and bleak in its resolve; it was a seizure of one’s destiny, and a decision made and channelled to intention and then to action.  She recognised it; she had seen it before, very recently, and in herself.  It made her tremble.

  _No_ , she thought, _please, no._  

 “I will go to Flanders.”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tying things up for character development. The ending will still be happening on schedule, and who knows if it will be the happily ever after you may be expecting. Hahahahahahah!!!
> 
> On Adolin and the pillow - we shall just say that Adolin enjoys not having to sleep alone for once.  
> Officer casualties - junior officers who prove themselves by leading the first charge often get considered for promotion for their bravery. Leads to lots of junior officers end up dying too. In this AU, officers who win battles get knighted and granted lands and peerages by the King, which is why they bother with it even if they would rather stay in the City. It's equivalent to young lighteyes taking risks to win Shards.  
> "Spontaneous generation" - belief that organisms can just pop into existence, like maggots on meat, or getting sick from leaving the window open at night. Disproven by Pasteur in the 1830's. Shallan is attempting to make an off-colour joke here.  
> Oh, and because you naughty pervs are wondering about it, no they didn't do the thing. But Adolin did get a stiffie, which he thinks is embarrassing. It happened in Chapter 7 as well, if you can pick it out.  
> The necklace - part of SA-Adolin's pre-duel ritual. Chicken for breakfast, burn the prayer, talk to the sword, carry Mother's chain.  
> "What occurs in between?" - Shallan has no idea what happens in between first base and home plate. They don't teach this stuff at school!  
> "Major Khal" - first mentioned in Chapter 11. He is this AU's equivalent of Captain Khal, the son of General Khal from SA-canon. Obviously I have no idea what a battalionlord is supposed to be, so I went with the period accurate ranks. The matter he wanted to discuss was the promised promotion. Fort Shulin is by the city of Shulin, the only other named town in the canon Kholin Princedom.  
> "Quartered in the village" - IRL revolutions were fought because civilians didn't like being forced to house soldiers in their own homes, back when armies didn't carry food supplies with them and needed to forage/requisition/loot from farmers to eat. It's not something Dalinar or Adolin agree with. Remember, no Soulcasters.  
> Renarin and gambling - this kid has hustle. Too bad you have to talk to other people to do it - if internet poker was invented in Roshar, Renarin would be a professional.  
> On Shallan and Jasnah - Shallan started in awe of Jasnah, admiring her and wanting to be smart and in control all the time. But after character development, she is more independent, and wants something different, because Jasnah's way of life won't make her happy.  
> Ridgebark - Adolin eats this stuff after Szeth bursts through the wall in WoR, and stays up all night at his dad's door in his Shardplate, with the coffee shakes. In this AU, it's soldier coffee since coffee is only grown and imported from the colonies. Most people drink tea.  
> The lamp - Kaladin mentioned finding one in Chapter 10. He thought it was glass instead of a gemstone.  
> "Arrested the Ardents" - Kabsal got away. The man who left a calling card was Mraize dressed as a guest.  
> On Dalinar and Adolin - a partial throwback to canon-Adolin wanting his dad to let him duel again, and going to meet Eshonai alone. It's also a sign of character development that he wants to make decisions instead of being on the backseat to The Dalinar Show. He is a competent commander, but his fears of failure have crippled him in the past, but when he stops caring about approval and says what he thinks, he can be a better strategist than Dalinar. And he does pay attention to Renarin's numbers, even if he thinks arithmetic is for chumps. In Chapter 9, Adolin shows his awareness of economics and the big picture, and it marks his difference from Dalinar who can be more Blackthorn when it comes to war. The big picture says that Dalinar is indispensable.  
> "King's shilling" - historical lingo for enlisting and taking the signing bonus.  
> Flanders and Napoleon - things are different in this AU compared to IRL timeline. But some major things will stay the same. There is no set year for this story, since in-universe references to technology and culture go all the way up to the 1880's. Just early 1800's if it bothers you.


	19. XIX

The rest of meeting passed as Shallan sat numbly staring at her untouched cup of tea.  She remembered bits of it – blurs of colour, mostly in shades of blue – and the sounds of men shuffling about, and stamping away when slips of paper containing fresh orders were sent off to the couriers’ barracks in the stable yard – and Major Khal’s improvised promotion ceremony, where he knelt before the seemingly indifferent King to kiss his seal ring, and had his new commission papers hastily written and stamped on the spot. 

 There was even a ritual prayer burning, lengths of linen-paper painted with glyphs for excellence and swift victory.  It was unusual for it to be done in this fashion in a stately home:  most grand houses had a combined prayer room and scriptorium with incense and braziers intended solely for such devotions.  It was unfashionable for one of noble rank to be openly pious, but even more unfashionable for one to lack such a room, for it was distinction enough to divide Grand House from common house.

 When it was finished, Shallan felt weary and drained, wishing she had drunk her tea, even though it had gone cold and the powdered ridgebark had collected into a grey sludge at the bottom of the cup.  She pushed her chair back, slung her satchel over her shoulder, and left the room.  There were still soldiers and officers in blue uniforms lingering behind; Prince Dalinar had called a meeting of the Dukes – who had by now woken up and breakfasted – with the intention of informing them to prepare for war.  It was no Family meeting, and she was not invited, and she saw that Jasnah and the few female hangers-on were leaving as well – presumably to the ladies’ parlour for morning tea and refreshments.

 In the hallway, Adolin’s voice called her name. 

 “Shallan!”

 “Adolin.”

 She continued walking until she reached a branch off the main hallway; it would allow some semblance of privacy.  She turned around.

 “I’m sorry – I know I am selfish.  It must be a shock—” said Adolin.  He crossed his arms, then uncrossed them, and his hands hung limp by his sides.

 “You do not want to live in regret.  I understand.  Courage.  And strength,” Shallan said, her downcast eyes on the carpet.  “You have them within – and you are finding them.  And there you will find your peace.”

 Adolin took a step closer, and his voice with low with emotion.  “For so long I have been afraid.  I choose not to be afraid anymore.  I have to do – what has to be done.  Not to prove that I am not weak, but rather because _I know_ I am not weak.”

 “You would regret it for ever if you didn’t.”

 His arms wrapped around her, and surrounded her with the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne, and his lips brushed against her forehead.  “No-one should live with regret,” he murmured.  “And it is the right thing to do.  I am not a soldier because it was the role I was born to be, but because it is the one I choose for myself.  The difference – the freedom – it comes from choice.   It is my duty to do what is right, because it is right – and not because I am told it is right.   It has taken me so long to see it, but I see it now.”

 “Your peace has come at last,” said Shallan.  Hot tears itched beneath her lashes.  It was not all sadness, or melancholy; nor could they be tears of joy, or exultant delight.  No, she was glad to see that Adolin had found a door in the self-imposed cage he called his weakness, and found his own key, and the courage to take it and turn it in the lock and enter the great and unexplored wilderness beyond.

 He sighed, and set the fine feathering tendrils of hair at her temple fluttering.  “My peace, and my purpose.  But only a part of it.  Just the very first step.”

 “I wish you the best of luck.”

 “Shallan.”  His voice caught in his throat.  “I do not intend for it to be an end – for us.  I will come back, I promise.”

 “You oughtn’t to make promises you can’t keep.”

 “I will keep this one.  Will you wait for me?”

 “I will do what I can.”

 “It is all I ask, Shallan,” he whispered.  She felt his lips grazing the lobe of her ear.  “I love you.”

 His palm cupped her cheek, and the golden band of the seal ring slid across the line of her jaw.  Adolin’s lips found hers, and she did not cringe away at _those_ words, words that no longer battered at her own self-imposed cage.  They were words that he had torn away from where they had been so very closely held – and hidden – around an unscarred spirit, one that had healing bruises upon further examination.  They were words he laid at her feet, and she could not tread them into the dust, just as she could not force them back in through his lips – his warm and gentle lips.  Those lips that were now pressed against hers.

 Shallan shuffled back one step, then another, until her shoulders collided with the wall; she slipped her hands under Adolin’s coat and drew him closer to her.   His fingers tangled into her hair, and she pulled him close and her knee rose up so that her inner thigh – covered by a layer of fabric – scraped against his hip.  He groaned, and she muffled the sound with another deep kiss, and a nibble at his lower lip, followed by a flick of tongue. 

 He had her gasping when his teeth grazed against the sensitive flesh of her throat; her arms around his waist squeezed sharply every time he gave a little nip.  There was a slight pause when his hands pulled open the high collar of her underdress and found the links of the necklace, warmed by her skin; he raised his head, and his eyes met hers, and she saw his expression – soft with the tender emotions he felt for her – and flushed with desire.  Then his tongue swept against that pink mark on her collar, and she shut her eyes and tried to forget that Adolin’s newfound discovery of choice would lead to a door opening far away, in another country, and another Continent…

 An apologetic false cough from the hallway interrupted her thoughts.

 Shallan’s eyes opened reluctantly.  Adolin growled; his breath hissed through his clenched teeth, and then he pushed himself away, tugging at his cuffs, and adjusting the hang of his coat to cover – Shallan paused, and then suppressed the thought with a pinch of sly amusement.  It would be, no doubt, the new and unseemly set of wrinkles that marred the perfect lines of his previously ironed waistcoat and neckcloth.

 “Lieutenant Colonel Khal,” Adolin said, with uncharacteristic irritation; he managed to contain it, but Shallan could observe a certain stiffness in his carriage and the set of his shoulders.

 “Sir,” said the new Lieutenant Colonel.   He scratched at his nose, aware that he was an unwelcome intruder in what might be politely described as a _private conversation_.  “The Dukes have been summoned and your father the Prince requests your presence in the library.  Immediately would be, ah, preferable.” 

 “Of course, thank you.  I will be there shortly,” Adolin answered.  He glanced back at Shallan.  “I shall look forward to seeing you,” he said, and then bent his head close for a quick peck to her lips.  Shallan’s hands curled around his lapels and pulled him in for a longer kiss, and he did not resist.

 “Good-bye,” said Shallan quietly as he and Lieutenant Colonel Khal turned away and made to leave.

 “It does not have to be one,” Adolin said, and he smiled, and Shallan wished she could be as good-humoured and light-hearted as he was, and that he could stay longer to show her how it was done, so they could the two of them be bright and carefree in laughter together, and alone. 

 But he was soon away down the hall, and she heard Khal say, “I find her looks charmingly exotic.  Have you been courting long?”

 “Long enough,” Adolin replied, “to know that I…”

 The rest of the conversation was too faint to hear.

 Shallan went to the water closet to compose herself in privacy.

 When she had finished, and wiped her eyes dry with the lace edging of her sleeve, she felt the scratch of the bit of pasteboard tucked inside.  She tugged it out.  It was the visiting card she had picked up from the floor of the servants’ hall, dropped by a mysterious member of the Organisation.  A man who had hidden himself in darkness and spoken to her about joining their cause.

 Shallan tossed the card into the close stool’s porcelain bowl.  The three printed diamonds of the face design dropped into the water; the blank back darkened on the edges and grew soggy.   She reached for the pump handle, but stayed her hand when lines of pink-violet emerged on the surface of the damp pasteboard.  Lines – parallel lines – perfectly straight, and crossed by perpendicular lines, and squares in a row, all very neat and orderly like a view of a town from above.  A map.

 She knelt on the floor over the bowl and peered down into the water.  Hazy handwritten text faded into existence.

 _“‘Waterlô’,”_ she read.  It was a town in the East Continent, and she had a vague idea of its location, but she would require an atlas just to be sure.

 Someone rapped impatiently at the door.

 “Are you finished in there, Miss Davar?” called Kaladin’s voice from outside.

 “No,” she said loudly, uncomfortably aware that it was unbecoming for a lady to raise her voice.  “Go away!”

 There was a pause.  “Too bad,” she heard Kaladin say.  Then the doorknob rattled and turned. 

 Shallan leapt to her feet and pulled the pump handle, and the card and the water swirled down into the drainpipe.  She whirled round to see Kaladin a few steps from the door, his brows darkly furrowed in anger; his eyes were black in his displeasure, and there was something else – an anxious concern, perhaps – in his face that showed a marked change from his usual stoic demeanour.  His lips thinned with grim disapproval.

  _“Damnation,”_ he snarled, seizing her by the wrist and dragging her from the room.  The door slammed shut behind him.  “I thought we had discussed this particular _habit_ of yours.  And I see you indulging in it now, while you make yourself tardy for an appointment for that _other_ habit.”

 “It’s none of your business,” hissed Shallan, trying to pull her arm away.  Kaladin’s grip loosened, but he did not let go.  She let him lead her down the corridors to the North Wing.

 “It is,” he snapped.  “Damnation.  I make it my business.”  He lowered his voice.  “When did you last have your courses?”

 Shallan almost reeled in shock from such a brazen enquiry.  “I don’t know,” she finally managed.

 “You do.  Think,” said Kaladin. “If that is not completely beyond you.”

 “Seven weeks ago,” Shallan mumbled after a time, twin patches of red burning warmly on her cheeks.

 “And you haven’t—”

  _“No.”_

 Kaladin made an irritated grunting noise.  It was rather unpleasant.  He was silent for a minute, and when he spoke, his voice was more moderated.  “When you and the Duke begin … knowing one another intimately … you must speak to me before.  It would be best for both of you to see me.”

Shallan’s face warmed up even more, and the warmth spread to her ears.  “Why?  What have our – intimate relations – got to do with you?” she asked.  She could guess one or two reasons why, but none of them seemed like anything Kaladin would ever lower himself to be involved with.

 Kaladin kept walking, and Shallan followed, until they reached the brass nameplate of the stillroom door.   “Preventative measures,” he said, sounding unexpectedly strained.  “Adolin would say that you are not up to foaling weight, and in that I agree.  A wait of one-and-a-half to two years before it should not pose a risk to your health.  As long as you don’t resort to – purging.”

 “Who said we would even do anything requiring preventatives,” Shallan huffed indignantly.  She crossed her arms.

 “Please, Miss Davar.  You throw yourself at him every time he looks your way.”

 “Well!  I will not be a — a broodmare!  I refuse!”

Kaladin rolled his eyes.  “We both know he doesn’t think of you like that.”

 “ _You_ do!  You think—”

 The stillroom door opened, and Renarin blinked at them from behind his spectacles.   Shallan’s mouth snapped shut, and she glared at Kaladin, who looked away unconcerned.  He flicked a bit of dust from his epaulet and yawned. 

 “Renarin,” she said, pasting on a smile and dipping into a respectful, if informal, curtsey.

 He surprised her by stepping forward and lightly brushing a kiss to either side of her face.  His lips were cool on her burning cheeks, and then they were just as quickly gone.  “Sister,” he said quietly, in his peculiarly toneless way.  But there _was_ something of his true sentiments in there, subtly tucked away – he was pleased to see her; he would not have greeted her with such familiarity otherwise.  “It looks lovely on you.  Congratulations.”

 Kaladin’s eyes flicked downward at her hands, searching for something that was not apparently there to be found.  He turned his back to her and strode to the glass-fronted cabinets on the wall.  “Give your progressionals to Renarin.  He will check them while I change your bandages.” He jerked his head at the surgical table, which now had a layer of padding over the steel sheeting, and buckled leather restraints that dangled from hooks underneath the tabletop.  “Get up, then.”

 Shallan unslung her satchel and pulled out her sketchbook.  The progressionals were there, tucked inside, just as she had left them days ago; most of the calculations were completed but for the temperature part, which she had left blank.  She handed them tentatively over to Renarin, who looked at her outstretched hand and the offered papers for a few long seconds.  She thought he might refuse them, or refuse her, or—

 He took the folded pages then wandered over to the side benches by the window, where he had pulled up a chair.  The benchtop in front of him had a neat stack of paper and four pencils lined up by size, and a few slim reference books.  The closest one had a blue cover embossed with:

 

  _Royal Anglethi Medical Corps Index of Calculations for Ether Dosing_

_second edition_

_Prepared by Major Renarin Kholin, Marquess Kholinshire_

 

 Kaladin cleared his throat.

 Shallan hopped onto the table – much softer with the padding now – and unbuttoned her dress, and then her underdress.  She dragged them down to her waist and waited.

 She heard the thump as Kaladin’s medical kit bag was placed on the table beside her, and the click of the catch, and a rustle as the Doctor rummaged inside.  Then she felt his warm hands on her bare shoulder from behind, but they were withdrawn, and he was silent, and she waited for him to say something.

 “He gave you the chain.”

 “He gave me the set of brushes too,” said Shallan, closing her eyes as his hands returned to business, undoing her bandages and cleaning the wounds, and salving them with the herbal paste.  “You are welcome to borrow them at any time.  But I cannot imagine it should do much to improve your appearance.”

 “What is perfect does not need improvement, Miss Davar,” remarked Kaladin.  She could sense the smugness in his tone, and she laughed.  “But the chain is special.  Adolin calls it his good luck charm.  He has it on him before every duel, and before every charge in every field action.”

 “He finds me in obvious need of good luck, then,” Shallan replied.  She winced as her burn was swabbed.  “As you can see.”

 “Perhaps he thinks it looks lovely on you.”

 “What is perfect does not need improvement,” she said, echoing his earlier line with a layer of undisguised sarcasm.

 “Of course not,” said Kaladin coolly, pressing a new pad of bandage over her ribs and tying it on.  “Do not think of it as an improvement.  It is more like a garnish – like the sprig of parsley, or the reserved feathers on a roasted pheasant.”

“But they don’t do anything,” Shallan said, frowning.  “They are taken off before one can start eating.”

 “Yes.”  Kaladin’s voice was infuriatingly calm.  She could never tell if he was making an attempt to be droll.  “You may dress yourself now.  Those new rashes of yours are really quite unsightly.”

 Shallan sighed and buttoned herself up again; she sat on the padded tabletop, swinging her legs idly back and forth and setting the dangling straps jingling merrily.  Kaladin returned to the cabinets, inspecting the ether bottles, putting some back, and finally deciding on a selection of five.  He placed them on a tray, next to five stacked steel bowls.  He went over to the curtained section in the corner of the room and a minute later came out with a rolling trolley constructed of two steel shelf-like tiers on a frame of sturdy wood.  He set the tray on the top, and pushed it, rattling, to the head of the surgical table.

 “Doctor Kaladin,” said Renarin suddenly, not bothering to look up from the papers fanned out in front of him.  “You said you wanted the calculations adjusted with the page sixty-two formulae—”

 “Yes,” said Kaladin.  Then he walked over to Renarin’s work table and peered over his shoulder.  “The _nu_ – the _sigma_ – should be extended in the series here and here to compensate.”

 Renarin’s pencil scratched over the pages.  “It will give you less than three minutes.  Should that do?”

 “Yes.”  He glanced back at Shallan, his face carefully expressionless.  “Miss Davar, make yourself comfortable.  It is standard to remove one’s shoes and loosen one’s top buttons.”

 Shallan lay back and closed her eyes, letting her mind sink into tranquillity, until each breath was slow and even and regular.  The dandies who hired their watchers and arithmeticians often hired a musician as well, to gently relax them whilst they entered and awoke from the drift.  The manuals said that a calming background stimulus in the half-lucid aftermath of the waking-drift brought a lingering peace, and it was an easier transition for the mind compared to the shock of smelling salts that she had experienced.  She had been roughly jarred awake a week ago, and it had made her disoriented in her own mind, and had led to rash behaviours and unintended actions.  Shallan, however, certainly could not feel regret for them.

 Wealthy dandies who frolicked hired harpists or flautists to accompany them.  Public drifting dens – at least the more respectable ones – had them also, sometimes with a lutist and a piper – anyone who had skill enough to keep time and carry a tune.  She, now, had Renarin and Kaladin.  Kaladin was, if anything else, competent, she decided, and Renarin was … well, precise and meticulous, even if she thought that he completely lacked artistic inclinations and the ability to turn his hand to improvisation.  They would do, and they would do a better job than she could do herself, or had ever done for Jushu and Balat.  It did not matter that neither of the gentlemen could or would sing for her, as she had sung for her father.

 They had hourglasses to keep time, anyway.

 She cleared her mind bit by bit, until she felt awareness seep out of her to encompass the whole room.  She could hear the _flip, flip, flip_ of Renarin shuffling papers about, and she could hear the tread of Kaladin’s scuffed uniform boots, and the clink of glass on steel surgical tray.  Then a book snapped shut, and Renarin’s chair scraped over the flagged floor.

 “Please begin, Doctor,” he said.  Then his head bent over hers.  “Your ninety minutes starts now, Sister.”

 She heard the tap as an hourglass was upended, and the glugging sound of ether poured into a bowl.  She smelled the fumes, and breathed them in, and they stung her nostrils with tingling familiarity.  She embraced the scent, and the dizzying near-pain of it burning warm through her nose, sizzling at the back of her tongue, and down into her throat.  Kaladin pressed the cold soaked pad over her nose and lips, and she inhaled.  The first breath hurt the most, but she breathed slowly and savoured it, until her face began to numb and her lips began to feel like they belonged to someone else. 

 The ether-doused pad was removed; she breathed in fresh air for a few seconds, and then it was replaced.  Kaladin counted down the seconds; she could hear him; she could hear everything.  But her own thoughts slowed to a trickle, and she couldn’t think of herself – she was perfectly aware of the things that happened and were happening around her, but the feelings, the urges, and the senses of her own body grew distant and far-removed, and she couldn’t care what happened to it.  No wonder ether was so commonly used in surgery and dentistry.

 “Two minutes and thirty-eight seconds,” called Renarin.  “Not three.”

 “Right,” said Kaladin.  “Miss Davar.  Shallan.”  His hand gripped her wrist, feeling for her pulse.

 “…Kaladin…” Shallan murmured, eyes closed, and smiling.  

 Kaladin lowered the pad over her nose, and she breathed.  Each breath was better than the last.  It was fresh, and cooling, and brisk, and – delicious.  Like the first breath of air on a clear and crisp winter day in the highlands, when one ventured outside after an evening spent in the stale coal-fug of the Loch Davar manor house.

 His warm breath whispered by her ear, and she giggled insensibly.  “Do you love me?” he asked, in a soft voice.

 Her numb lips answered his question; the words slipped out, completely bypassing her brain and her memory.  She did not know what she said, and she could not recall his question afterward, nor did she consider the significance of it.  It didn’t matter; it was transient; everything was transient and fleeting and nowhere near as bright as the colours she could see playing out in her own mind. 

 “Do you love Adolin?” he asked.

 Her clumsy tongue twitched, and her lips moved, and she answered that question as well.  It did not take long to find an answer, or else time seemed to work differently when she had nothing by which to measure but the flickering colours of memory and false-memory.  Kaladin let go of her wrist when he heard her answer, but her hand rose upward, and traced the white officers’ piping of his coat sleeve, and her fingers trailed up his forearm.

 “I do not count them a blemish,” Shallan found herself saying, as memory trundled backward and her mind fell backward as well.  She would have fallen backward too, if she hadn’t been lying down.  Faster and faster it went, until it all blurred into vivid streaks.  Black and green and yellow and white, streaks and stripes of colour in the warp and weft of her life…

 “Forty-seven seconds,” Renarin said.

 “I am finished,” said Kaladin.

 “The fifty-five then, Doctor.”

 The sound of pouring once again, and then a fresh pad was placed over her mouth and nose – this time stronger than the last.  The vapours filled her, and she embraced them, but she was too far gone to feel shame at this wretched indulgence of a deplorable habit.  She smiled with numbed and buzzing lips, and she filled herself with the invisible ether fumes and let them enter her, and surround her with their wondrously beautiful sights, and sounds, and colours, and sensations.  And everything was so real and bright and clear and lively it was like she was there, that she was back home – but she could not be back, for these were no true memories, she realised.  They were versions of memories, exaggerated beyond true life and coloured with the rosy forgetfulness and the complacent blindness of nostalgia.

 But they were still beautiful, and Shallan did not turn them away.  She was an artist.  There was beauty, and she could appreciate it, and find the real truth hidden within.

 She saw the wedding day again, the day Father married Malise, when she and her brothers still carried hope in their hearts that Father could change, and it would change everything.  They had hoped – they had wanted, so very desperately – for Father to move on from his grieving over Mother’s death, for him to put aside the past, to continue with a life that did not involve evenings alone with the whisky bottle, or long walks around the lake with a fowling piece, returning empty-handed but covered in dirt and blood and feathers.

 That day was her last day of happiness, before her hopes had been crushed out of her and replaced with despair and emptiness, until she had left Loch Davar for good.

 It was happiness, naïve and childish happiness born of ignorance and a severe absence of foresight, tinged with the myopic eyes of wistful sentimentality.  But it was warm with the familiarity of a favourite lavender-scented blanket, and Shallan had not felt that warmth for so long … but somehow, it was different to the warmth she felt when Adolin laughed at something she said, and when he looked at her—

 Malise, the beautiful bride, wore a woven coronet of lavender and heather on her hair, which was unusually streaked with blonde.  She had pale skin, and a small button nose, and her cheeks bloomed with joy on her wedding day.  For Malise was the youngest daughter of a minor squire, and although she was much younger than Laird Davar, she was old for a first bride.  She was less than a decade older than Shallan, and had only a few years over Helaran Davar.  So she was naturally grateful, and exceptionally ecstatic, at being the new Baroness – it was a prestigious match, and much better than could be expected for a young woman of the lower gentry who boasted no favourable connection.

 Husbands and wives often did not love each other on their wedding day; there was no requirement that they had to, when the banns were read.  Malise thought that Lin Davar could love her, one day.  And when Shallan saw the woman who was to be her new step-mother, graceful and gracious and beautiful in the red and black and striped cream of the Gevelmar tartan, she thought if she could love Malise, then Father could too.

 She remembered the scratch of her own tartans, the same new set she had worn for her presentation to The McValam, and her Scots bonnet with her clan badge, lovingly polished the night before, and proudly worn on the day.  She remembered the taste of sparkling wine tingling up her nose, and the first time she had tried unwatered whisky, given to her by Jushu.  It had burned on her throat just like ether vapours.  She remembered the taste of butter cake made with expensive white sugar and decorated with imported candied cashews.

 They were memories that were so close to life that she could almost accept that they were the real thing.  But they were soft and blurred on the edges, and if she looked further, she could see things that she hadn’t seen at the time.  When Father had unwrapped Malise’s Gevelmar tartan, and Helaran had handed up a new woollen McValam tartan for him to drape over her shoulders, Helaran’s face had been twisted into a scowl of resentment.  It was the beginning of his falling-out with Father.

 But Malise was happy when the green and black of the McValam tartan was lowered over her shoulders and pinned in place with a clan badge, and Shallan clung to that happiness, relishing in the sensation, drifting in it, and remembering these false memories of a home built on a foundation of lies and deceit and pain and secrets.  She ignored everything else and let in all the good things, the way she had done for a third of her life – as a means of self-defence.  This was indulgence, and she would let herself indulge, just this once – this one last time.

 She breathed in, and breathed out, slowly and peacefully, and let the colours and sounds take her elsewhere.  To the place she could call home, only when all the terrible things were blocked out and completely excised from memory.  It was much better that way, when it was so distant she could only touch it from her mind, and it could not touch her at all.  When she had a doctor and her new brother to watch over her as her blood brothers could never have done.  She trusted them.  And that was enough for her to feel safe.

 “Sixty minutes,” said a voice.

 “Not long left, then.”

 “No.”

 The pad over her nose was lifted.  Shallan kept her eyes closed, lingering in the vapours.  It was a replaced with a new cloth, soaked in ether and diluted with distilled water.  She could tell she was regaining her lucidity.   She relaxed, and took deep, slow breaths.

 “Time?”

 “Seventy-nine minutes.”

 “Soon.”

 The pad was changed once again, and then lifted away, and not replaced.

 Shallan did not open her eyes. 

 The waking-drift was rather curious in its combining freedom of thought – a product of the drift – with the lucidity of one’s real and physical life.  One could become dangerously devoid of inhibition, but still be perfectly capable of thinking clearly, and speaking intelligibly enough that people often could not tell that one had just left the embrace of ether.  In this lay the importance of driftwatchers, those whose duty involved preventing acts of impropriety before one had a chance to act upon them. 

 An indifference of mind arose in the waking-drift’s gently tenuous embrace; it was the follow-through to the indifference of body from the true drift.  There was still awareness in both – unlike ether dosages for inducing surgical insensibility – but the primary effect was a lack of concern.  One could be cut and bleed and see the blood, but one would not scream from the pain of it.  One could remember and dwell upon painful things without feeling the pain of them. 

 Painful things.  Like, for example, the day Shallan had killed her own mother.

 Her mother was ill, in the mind, if not in the body.  She had fits of dementia, and her moods wandered unpredictably, and all of them at Loch Davar held onto her happy days; when she had her bad ones, the ones where she railed in her room, and tossed porcelain shepherdesses out of the window to smash onto the courtyard below, they closed their eyes and waited for it to pass. 

 Father wouldn’t acknowledge that Mother was ill.  He loved Mother too much.  He blinded himself with his love for her.

 And that was it.

 Father loved Mother, spirit and soul and heart and everything else.  He was a man of strong feeling, and passions, and he had in him the old berserker blood of the northern clans; everything he did was done with passion.  That was the reason for the Davar siblings numbering five, when most respectable noble couples only produced two – an heir and a spare – in order not to dilute the family holdings when split in the form of inheritances and dowries.   Mother and Father didn’t care – they were much the same in thought and action.  They matched; they balanced one another – as long as they had each other.

 Father could never have loved Malise.  Never.  Nothing – _no-one_ – could ever replace Mother, and that was how he had broken, when he had gone away in his own mind, and could never find his way back.  Something within him had cracked; it died, and it had rotted into putrescence, when Shallan killed Mother.  The checks on his behaviour had snapped.  He forgot himself, once too often, once too far, and Shallan had had to kill him too.

 Mother’s death occurred when Shallan was eleven years old.

 Mother had her off-days, and had been in seclusion from Society for several months by then, after having made a scene at a garden party.  There had been rumours about her; most thought she had been sent away to take the waters, or to try the sea air when the country air of the Loch had not proven itself effective.

 Shallan was summoned upstairs for her weekly presentation in Mother’s boudoir, to show to advantage the skills mastered in lessons with her governess.  It was the governess before Madame Tyn.  She would be expected to curtsey, recite, sing, and sum on command, on pain of her governess’s dismissal and replacement.  Shallan was always anxious before the weekly meeting; she was always desperate to please Mother, and give the answers she wanted to hear.  The right answer was not always the acceptable one in Mother’s strange and twisted mind.

But this time, Mother was on one of her bad days.

 She had berated Shallan, and screeched at her, but Shallan was used to it.  She dodged out of the way of the thrown hand-mirror, and the tea settings, and then the candlesticks.  She, by then, was used to Mother calling her a spawn of Damnation, a bastard of Braize, a terrible wilful changeling child born with a terrible cursed soul that could not be fixed.  It hurt; it wounded a child so desperate for loving approval, and each word felt like a slash across her young and impressionable heart.

 Father closed his eyes to it.  He loved Shallan, but he loved Mother, and he could not accept that Mother could not love her.

 So Shallan endured it, more often as Mother descended into her madness.  Instead of waiting for her bad days to pass, they started hoping that the sun would rise on a rare good day.

 Until that day Shallan had gone up to Mother’s rooms, and Mother told her that she had finally found a cure for that cursed soul.  Shallan, filled with the hope of childlike innocence, had approached Mother, expectant and trembling and eager in her desire to finally please when before she had failed in every attempt.  Then Mother had brought out the letter knife and tried to stab Shallan with it.

 Mother chased Shallan around the room, swearing and shrieking.  It was typical behaviour for her by then, and went ignored by servants and family alike.  Shallan had knocked things down, and thrown things on the floor behind her, but Mother came on implacably with the light of righteous, manic fury burning hotly in her eyes.  Shallan had looked around for something to protect herself, found the dressing table stool, and threw it at Mother’s legs.

 Mother fell to the white carpet.

 The letter knife flew out of her hands. 

 Shallan picked it up.

 Mother leaped at Shallan, and bore her down onto the carpet, and they had rolled around struggling and scratching, and Shallan had slashed out with the knife and cut Mother’s arm, first once, and then twice, and three times.  Mother fell back, and her blood dripped down her wrist, twining around her hands like vines on a trellis, pattering onto the carpet and staining the pure white with bright spots of red.  Mother cradled her wrist, smearing her arms and her dressing gown with bloody handprints, and when she looked up at Shallan, there was no anger there – only emptiness, the bleak and miserable emptiness of regret.  There was no love, nor any capacity for love.  She was hollow, all the way through, and mother and daughter knew it for an unavoidable truth in that instant; when their eyes met, they shared something in common as they had not shared in years, so many years that Shallan could barely remember it; she was too young.

 She took one bloody finger and drew a line over her other wrist, and Shallan understood what was meant.  She had ever been the precocious child.  When she was finished, she closed Mother’s eyes, and kissed her cooling cheek, and placed the letter knife in her hands.  She sat on the bed and cried, until the silence was noticed, and Father’s heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and down the hallway and then he burst through the door.

 The coroner said Mother had done it herself.  The village gossips said Father had driven her into it, by locking her away in the manor house instead of sending her abroad to a sanatorium, as was usually done for cases of chronic hysteria.  Perhaps Father believed that there was truth in that, for he blamed himself, and his outward passion turned inward and twisted him from the inside until he was not the same man anymore; from then he stopped being Shallan’s loving father. 

 It was easier to believe that Father had caused it all, and that Shallan was not responsible.  She had just been there, but she could not remember anything.  She was the innocent victim, the victim of circumstance, and she accepted it.  She accepted everything that had happened with willing compliance, and let others choose for her.  It was easier that way, just as it was easier to forget what had happened.

 No-one knew Shallan had done it, and no-one blamed her.  They pointed their fingers at Father and whispered about him, and he did not deny it; he was cut from Society and he turned to drink.  The seasons changed, and the social Seasons came and went, and Father grew grasping and selfishly protective.  Helaran had gone away to school; Balat and Wikim had expected to go away for their education, but Father kept them close and did not make the necessary arrangements.  He kept all of them close – and Shallan the closest of all.

 But Father was dead now, because she had killed him.

 She was broken, and had been broken since she had taken a life for the very first time.  She knew now that it had been a choice, a choice to protect herself.  Shallan had saved her life by choosing that over death; she did not have to be broken.  And in the end, she rather thought she had saved Mother as well.

 Shallan opened her eyes.  Her cheeks were wet with tears.

 Kaladin’s eyes stared down at her.

 “Oh,” she whispered, memories lingering behind her eyelids, voice feeble with dry lips and parched tongue.  “He’s dead.  He went away for ever, and he will never come back.  Kaladin – he’s dead.” 

 Kaladin looked as if she had struck him.  He turned away, breathing heavily, hands clenching into fists at his sides.

 “Kaladin,” she said, thoughts whirling with the cool and emotionless clarity of the waking-drift.  “Your father once asked if one could kill to protect.  My own father taught me that, yes, one can.” 

  _I have a plan_ , said the calm and detached Shallan in her mind.

 “What did you see in the drift, Miss Davar?” said Kaladin slowly, turning around and all but pinning her to table with the force of his gaze.

 “Truth.  Do not worry, one time is enough.  I enjoy it – but I do not crave it.  How strange,” she replied.  And indeed it was.  She did not try to keep the vapours inside of her, clinging to the abyss, as she had done that last time a week ago.  She would enjoy it – anyone would – if it were offered again, but she felt no urge to seek it out and return once more to the bliss of a gratification that she recognised was no true happiness.  “Now, can you untie me?”  She rattled the straps at her wrists, and felt the pressure of the strap at her forehead.

Kaladin undid the buckles, and the straps dangled once again under the table.  Shallan sat up, swung her legs down, and would have collapsed onto the floor if Kaladin had not caught her in his arms.  She flung an arm over his shoulder and laughed.

 “Your hair is so different to mine!  And it smells like ether!  You smell like ether!”  She took a deep sniff and pulled at a lock of his hair, then she patted his head.  It was not soft and fluffy like Adolin’s, but coarse and in dire need of a comb.  “Do you cut your own hair?”

 “Yes.”  He looked at her, eyebrow raised.

 “Can you cut mine?”

 The stillroom door opened.  Renarin stood at the threshold, bearing a tray with a teapot and a platter piled high with sandwiches cut into neat triangles.  He surveyed them over the frame of his spectacles.

 “Should I come back later?” he asked.

 “No,” they both said at the very same time.

 Kaladin cleared off the table and brought chairs, and they ate their lunch on the surgical table, and used clean beakers for cups.  Shallan was hungry – the last time ether had given her quite an appetite as well – and she ate more than Renarin.

 “Renarin,” she said, with her mouth full – she was still in the grip of the waking-drift, and did not care about sensibility and seemliness.  “How much does it cost to buy a commission?”

 Renarin put down his beaker of lukewarm tea.  “It depends on the service, the regiment, and the rank.”

 “I have ten unworn silk gowns worth a hundred spheres sterling apiece, a set of silver hairbrushes, and a silver necklace.  What would that buy me in the Kholin Regiments?”

 A chair scraped backward; the table shifted, and tea slopped over the edge of Shallan’s beaker.  Kaladin towered over them, his eyes flashing with anger.  “No.  What you’re thinking – the answer should be no.  You too, Renarin.”

 Renarin sipped placidly at his tea.  “Regimental Infantry Lieutenant, easily.  You still need enough for the uniform, equipment, and horse.”

  _“Lieutenant Davar,”_ said Shallan.  “I like the sound of it.”

 “Shallan,” said Kaladin warningly.  “You wanted to be Duchess Kholinar once.  What happened to that?”

 “I don’t want to be Duchess Kholinar if it means I must be the Dowager Duchess.”

 “What you’re doing is against the law.  I could report you.  And Renarin too.”

 Renarin folded his hands over the table.  He glanced at Kaladin, then Shallan.  “Doctor,” he said, “do you think Shallan would enjoy a month in the court martial’s cage?”

 “She wouldn’t be court martialled.”

 “She would still spend a month in there while Adolin sorts things out.  If you can recall—”

 “I still disagree.”

 “There is another way.”  Renarin rose to his feet, and walked over to the stack of papers.  He inclined his head, and Shallan stood too, and joined him.  He opened his coat, and drew out a slim leather wallet from the interior pocket, which he unfolded on the table.  “Your progressionals are accurate for all that they were roughly done,” he said.  “Sign here.”

 It was a rectangle of heavy cotton-rich, watermarked paper, printed in the square blue letters of an official document, and embossed with a swirling gold border on the edges.   It read _Certificate of Qualification_ on the top, with spaces on the bottom for date and signatures.  Renarin’s name was already signed in one corner, next to the blue wax roundel and attached silver ribbon of his personal seal.

 Shallan picked up the pencil and signed _Shanall McRavad_ on the indicated space.

 “Welcome to the Supply Corps, Lieutenant,” said Renarin.  And then he handed her a gold sovereign.  “I don’t have a sphere shilling, but this has the King on it, so it will have to do.  Everything will be taken care of – you needn’t sell my mother’s chain and brushes.”

 “Thank you.”  Shallan smiled and threw her arms around Renarin; he stood stiffly, and then his hand patted her on the back.

 “I would be proud to call you _Brother_ ,” he whispered.  He returned to the table and resumed his half-eaten lunch.

 Shallan folded up her certificate, and slid it back into the leather wallet, smiling all the while.  She heard Kaladin’s footsteps behind her.

 “That was a terrible idea,” he said.  “Exactly the type of thing a driftwatcher is meant to prevent.”

 “It is the right thing to do.  I would regret it for ever if I didn’t.  And no-one should live in regret.”

 “No,” he said.  “But you could die.”

 “Then I will die without regret.  I have faced death many times already,” Shallan said fiercely, glaring at the Doctor.  “And I have killed, and I can kill again.  I can kill to protect.  I will not die doing nothing, I promise you that.”

 Kaladin sighed and rubbed his eyes; he leaned heavily against the table.  “I suppose you want me to cut your hair.”

 “Not yet.  You promised to take me to the range.  I would like that, very much.”

 “Whatever the lady desires,” said Kaladin, deferring to his usual sarcastic tone.  “Though I think it would be superior officer now.”

 “Lady will do.  But you never called me Lady Shallan anyway,” said Shallan.  Then she grimaced.  “We shall keep the superior officer business between us.”

 Kaladin lowered his voice.  “And Adolin?  What will he say when he finds out you are throwing away the titles and security he offers?”

 “He will understand that there are things more important than names and wealth.  And I am not throwing them away – merely delaying them.  If the main duty of the Duchess must be delayed, then why not all of them?”  She walked back to the lunch table, and seated herself, pointedly ignoring Kaladin’s fallen chair.  “Now, I can tie a neckcloth, and ride a horse astride, and give a close shave with a straight razor.  What else do I need to know?”

 “How to wear and walk in trousers,” Kaladin said.  “Have you ever done it?”

 Shallan reddened, and picked up a sandwich.  “Um.  A few times?” she paused.  “Thrice, perhaps.  I wear woollen stockings on cold days; that’s very nearly same thing.”

 Renarin exchanged a look with Kaladin, who looked faintly amused.  “Shallan,” said Renarin carefully, “I have my old parade uniform from when we reviewed the troops at the start of the war.  If you should like to have it, it would be no problem.”

 “If you could spare it, you would do me a great honour,” Shallan answered.  “Thank you.”

 Renarin slid his chair back and silently left the room.

 “I know you disapprove,” said Shallan.

 “Whatever gave you that impression, Miss Davar?”

 Shallan ignored him.  “How old was your own brother when he took the King’s shilling?  Would you say that he was better prepared than I?”

 “He was fifteen.  He signed with a false name and a false age.  And now he is dead.”

 “You know well that not everyone can be saved.”  Shallan hesitated for a moment, then ploughed ahead.  “Sixteen is the minimum to take the shilling from the drumhead.  Adolin went to the marshlands when he was seventeen.  If he could do it, why not I?”  His eyes were dark with a feeling that did not show on his face.  “If you say, _‘because you are a woman’_ , I shall be tempted to strike you.”

 “I wasn’t going to say that.  No.  It would be a great loss if you were to die.” 

 Shallan bit her lip and looked at the crumbs on the lunch tray.  “I have come a long way since you called me a nuisance, haven’t I?”

“Yes.  And there is still a long way left to go.”

 “Then I am glad I should not have to go alone.”

 “No.  Never.”

 They lapsed into a companionable silence.  Kaladin finished his lunch, and collected the plates, then carried them to the scullery tub where he pushed back his sleeves, washed the dishes, and stacked them on the sideboard to dry.  He did not say anything, or endeavour to make conversation, or attempt a petty justification to explain why a man would lower himself to doing what society called woman’s work.  Shallan knew him well enough by now that Doctor Kaladin did not care for what society expected him to say or do, and if he had read _Arts and Majesty_ as he had read _The Way of Kings_ , what he made of it was coloured with his innate scepticism. But he seemed to respect what other people thought of it, if they happened to align themselves with the intention behind the words.  Perhaps that explained his prayer in the Courtlea village church that day, when she had been under the assumption that he was as Godless as Jasnah.

 Shallan opened her satchel and slid out her sketchbook and pen box.  She swept away the breadcrumbs and began drawing, clearing her thoughts.  It was much easier when the waking-drift still lingered in the foggy edges of her mind; it had been so recently that she had experienced the ether-induced clarity that it was no struggle at all to reach for it, and grasp it so it enveloped her once more. 

 Perception. 

 That was the key.

 The latch, the lock, the cage, the door.  It was all a choice.  And she could make it.  She smiled.

 She dug through the pen box.  Blue ink.  That was exactly what she needed.

 Shallan drew, and sketched, and dipped her finger in a small puddle of spilled tea on the table to wash out the blue ink into something just a shade lighter and less opaque.   Kaladin cleared up the supplies left over from Shallan’s drift, wringing out the nose cloths over the scullery drain.  His movements were patient and methodical, and he looked as if he had done it all before.

 He was a surgeon.  Of course he had.  And it was not indulging wretches in their vile habits that he did, but applying anaesthetic so that people whose legs had to be off did not kick him in the face in their pain and terror.  Shallan tried to imagine Kaladin being kicked in the face.  She doubted it would result in a change to his perpetually grim countenance – his brows would go down instead of up, and that would likely be the only difference.  But Shallan had seen beer dripping out of his nose, and that was indignity in plenty – enough to satisfy her unladylike wicked streak.

 Shallan could accept the existence of this playful wickedness in her; it was different to the cursed soul her mother had long accused her of, for all that she had believed that they were one and the same thing – the very thing she was told would unavoidably condemn her to Damnation, where she belonged.  Not everything in her was unlikeable, she realised.  Society might not turn an appreciative eye to certain aspects of her character – she could never be the agreeably biddable ingénue expected for someone of her station.  But Adolin didn’t think it important, and Kaladin didn’t care – and Renarin did not seem to have any expectations either way.  So she did not have to care either.

 They were not flaws.  She was flawed – everyone was – but she could be redeemed.  She was worth redemption, and if other people would not give it to her, she would find it, and seize it for herself.  For it was all in perception. 

 Perception.

 If she could find herself a new woman, a new man could not be so challenging.

 That almost made her laugh aloud.  She had already found a new man, and he was wonderful and honest and kind and gentle, and that was enough to mark him dissimilar to the all men she had known in her young life.  And since he had slept in her bed, and seen her in the bathing chamber – though they happened to be affianced and hadn’t done certain _other_ things – they were as yet unmarried.  It was enough for her to delight in the deliciously wicked revelation that Adolin, by technicality, was her lover.  Of course, no-one would ever say it, and precious few would even think it, but it was all in perception, and she liked the sound of it. 

 She smiled as she sketched, and Kaladin took care of the housekeeping tasks – refilling the lamps, trimming the wicks; he even swept the floor and gathered the dust into a pan that he tipped into the autoclave boiler’s coal bin.  It didn’t bother her that Kaladin did the work better suited for women or servants, or women servants, when a week ago she would have thought him impudent for disregarding the dignity of his own place and position within the household.  Addressing the quality by their noble titles was a conventional display of respect for most people.  Kaladin showed the depth of his respect in other ways.  He was capable of it, even if she had not recognised it upon their first being introduced.

 He had respect for her.  She could return it, and make it mutual.  That feeling, at least, could be easily managed.

 The afternoon sun lit the clouds with glowing orange light in the tall windows of the stillroom, and Kaladin drew the blinds and lit the lamps to spare their eyes from the blinding glare.  He took away the padded table cover and straps, and wiped down the table, first with water, and then with diluted ether; Shallan did not even feel much distracted by the fumes.  It did not have the same draw as it had in the past, but the familiarity was the same.  She could like it, and allow herself to like it, but she did not hunger for it.  Not anymore. 

 Renarin returned, with a soft tap on the door, and a large travelling case in one hand and a shoebox in the other.  “Sister,” he said, “these were last worn when I was thirteen.  You shall have to try them on.”

 He opened the case on the table, smelling of camphor; out came blue trousers, and a blue coat – lacking service patches on the arm, and only simple shoulder tags instead of officers’ epaulets – and a number of white shirts and blue waistcoats in different sizes, and blue neckcloths.  The shoebox contained a beautifully polished pair of dark brown riding boots, with socks stuffed into the toes in lieu of shoe trees.

 “There’s the curtained corner for disrobing,” said Kaladin, gesturing to the curtain on a rail at the end of the room. 

 “I thought you didn’t care about these things,” remarked Shallan, digging through the clothes, giving up, and selecting three shirts that looked about right.  She supposed she would have to get a custom bodice made if she didn’t want to bulge in the wrong places.  She didn’t have much in that particular department, but if she were forced by chance to take off her waistcoat, her presentation would make itself glaringly obvious.

“I think Renarin should be spared the horror of it.”

 “It’s so horrible that the thought of it keeps you up at night, I’m sure,” Shallan retorted, dragging open the curtains.  She stepped in, and closed the curtains, letting her face peek out at the Doctor.  “But I think Adolin seems amenable to facing such fears.”

 There was a chair in the small curtained corner, and a door with a sign on which was written ‘ _DO NOT OPEN’_.  The handle had hanging from it a chimney lamp with a column made of red glass.  She dropped the pieces of uniform onto the chair’s seat, and unbuttoned her dress and underdress, looking for a place to put it.  There was none, and she didn’t want to throw it over the back of the chair and let the hems drag on the floor.  It didn’t matter if the longer underdress touched the ground – that was their purpose, as they were cheaper and could be laundered with hot water and lye in the weekly wash, but the outer dress was made of more expensive and delicate fabrics that were spot-cleaned after wear by the lady’s maid, and carefully cold rinsed then wafted with steam twice a year.

 “Renarin,” she hissed, and thrust the dress and underdress through a gap in the curtains.  She heard footsteps, and then he took them, and she pulled on the white shirt sized for a boy but still a bit long in the sleeves for her.  _“Storming Anglethis,”_ she muttered, as everything turned out to be either a tad too long, or slightly too wide for her slender frame.   She folded up the cuffs and tucked the tails into the trousers.  When she was finished, she did not think it looked completely unsalvageable.  The fit of it was more suggestive of a financially prudent young lad with optimistic expectations of further growth, than a boy in his father’s uniform.  A few new seams, hemming here and there, and it would be sufficient; Shallan could not dare to hope it should be as nice as anything made bespoke.

 She stepped out.  Kaladin snorted.  “If your aim was to look as Renarin did at thirteen, I think you are not far from the mark.  Try walking.”

 She walked from one side of the room to the other, awkward in the boots that had enough room in the toes that she stuffed an extra pair of socks in there.  She passed the surgical table, where the box lay open, spilling tissue paper over her shucked dress and underdress.

 “You walk like a girl,” Kaladin observed.

 “My governess deserves a medal of commendation, then,” Shallan said.  “She always said I walked like a boy, when I couldn’t glide about as I was supposed to.”

 “The officer ranks are not known for any lack of flamboyance.  It’s not the walk that is the real problem – it’s your hips.”

 “What of them?  Are they that much of a horror?”

“No, it’s rather that they exist,” said Kaladin, rubbing at the back of his neck.  “Most ladies believe modish dresses will win them attention, but I should say trousers do a better job of it.”

 “Well, I do not expect to see them as the new Society fad anytime soon.”  Shallan walked back and forth, in the thick duck cloth trousers that were strangely liberating and light without the swish of skirts she had been long accustomed to.  “They remind men that women not only have hips, but ankles and knees too.  The horror!”

 “You should try it with a belt and neckcloth, and maybe this waistcoat,” said Renarin, holding them out to her.  “The Kholin Regiments aren’t as lax on uniform as the others.”

 Shallan returned to the curtained corner and exchanged her waistcoat, and buckled the belt, and tied the neckcloth.  It didn’t look right – not like Adolin’s or Kaladin’s.  She didn’t know the right knot for it, and had automatically tied it in the fashion with which she was familiar, the one she used for Wikim and Jushu.  She untied it, and tried again.

 Someone rapped on the door.

Renarin whispered through the gap in the curtains.  “My brother is here.”

 Kaladin answered the door. 

 “Have you seen Shallan?” came Adolin’s voice.  It was curious how Adolin’s manner of speech was exuberant and carrying and could be commanding if he wanted, but Renarin was always solemn and soft-spoken; it seemed as if he were incapable of raising his voice.  “They said I would be able to find her here.”

 “She’s … busy,” said Kaladin.  His back blocked the doorway.

 “Is she here, then?” Adolin paused.  “That’s her bag on the floor … and that’s her dress on the table.”  He lowered his voice; suddenly he sounded upset, and distress coloured his speech.  “Kal!  _What’s going on?_ ”

 “She will speak to you later—”

“Let me through, man!”  Adolin pushed past Kaladin at the door, and halted.  “Renarin?  What are you doing here?”

 Renarin was silent.  He stepped aside.

 The curtain was yanked open.  Shallan was unpleasantly reminded of the incident in her room, that morning.  She turned around, and her hands dropped from tying the neckcloth. 

 “Shallan?”  Adolin’s face made a rapid transition from anxious to confused.  His eyes took the measure of her, from head to shiny polished toe. “What manner of foolery is this?  Is this some sort of game?”

 “It’s Renarin’s uniform,” said Shallan, keeping her own countenance carefully blank.

 “I can see that.  But you’ve got the knot wrong.  You’ve done the country squire’s tie.  The regimental twist is like this,” he said, stepping closer.  “Here, allow me.”

 She allowed his gentle fingers to undo the neckcloth, smooth it out, and wrap it once again around the starched peaks of her – Renarin’s – collar.  She closed her eyes.  “You must be wondering why I’m here.  Dressed like this.”

 “Well, now I suppose I am,” he admitted.  “It is a game, isn’t it?”

 Shallan opened her eyes, and drew in a slow breath.  The moment of truth had arrived with enough force to make her head swim with its swirling inevitability.  Adolin’s blue eyes met her own; he was perplexed by his own lack of understanding, and she saw that he was desperately grasping for something that made any sense at all. 

 “I took the King’s shilling,” she said.  She tried to pass it off lightly.  “Sovereign actually.  But the intent was the same.”

 Adolin finished the knot, and tucked the ends of the neckcloth under the lapels of her waistcoat.  His hands stilled, and slid to her shoulders.   “Joining this family,” he said, his expression guarded, “does not require joining the Regiment.”

 “It was my own choice.  If it disagrees with you, we have no formal contract and you are free to select another whose priorities align closer to your own.”

 “I made the announcement during luncheon.  You would be disgraced.”

 “I should have my Grand Tour in that case,” said Shallan, flippantly.  “A withdrawal from polite society is the perfect response to such a blow.”

 “Then it is a shame that I do not want another.” His voice was low with feeling.  A hand left her shoulder and went to her face; his thumb brushed against her cheek.  He pressed his forehead to hers; his hair tickled against her brow.  “I only want you,” he whispered.  “I could not bear it if – if—”

 “No-one should have to go alone.  We are Family,” said Shallan, thinking of their conversation in the hallway, earlier that day.  “We can be selfish together.”

  _“Together,”_ repeated Adolin.  “I like the sound of it.”

 He kissed her on the cheek, and then very softly on the lips, and his hand on her shoulder drifted down to her back and curled around her waist.  After a few breathless seconds, he drew himself away and ran a hand through his hair.  “It is strange,” he said, “when you are wearing a coat and trousers.  Renarin’s coat and trousers.  I do not say it is a bad thing, just – very strange.”

 “Renarin will call me _Brother_.  You could too, if you wanted,” Shallan said, with cheek.  She smiled.

 “No,” said Adolin, smiling back.  “I could not – it would be tremendously strange.  For you will always be Shallan to me, my Shallan, no matter what you wear, or who you pretend to be.”  Then he leaned close and spoke quietly.  “Beneath it all, I know it is the Shallan that I love.  And not like a brother.”

 Shallan’s cheeks began to glow a bright pink.  It was she who always made Adolin blush with the saucy things she said, not Adolin who rebuffed her attempts at impertinence with a heretofore unexpected aptitude of his own.

 Then Kaladin said sharply, “Are you finished dressing?”

 And Shallan knew it for deliberate impertinence, and from the Doctor, it was completely expected.  There was the hint of something in his tone that suggested that he might suspect that they had been in the midst of undressing.  Some people, unlike other people – aggressively light-skirted visitors to the stillroom, for example – had standards.  She stepped out of the curtains, Adolin at her heels.

 Renarin was tidying up the papers from her appointment, and returning the books to a glass-fronted cabinet.  Kaladin was at the surgical table, attention directed to an open leather document wallet unfolded over her discarded dress.  Her signing papers.  She strode forward, relishing her new ability to stamp her feet without tripping on layers of skirts.  Kaladin folded the wallet and tied the loop around it without looking up. 

 “Interesting,” he said, “how you sign your, _hmm_ , name with a different hand than you use for your _other_ writings.  The attention to detail is commendably convincing, Lieutenant.”

 “One must pay particular—” Shallan began.

 “Lieutenant?” said Adolin.

 Kaladin tossed the wallet to Adolin.  “She didn’t tell you?  Miss Davar’s service rank is in the Supply Corps.”

 Adolin unfolded the wallet and read its contents.  “Not a combat position, thank the Almighty.”  He looked up, and his eyes lit on Renarin.  “But I am Infantry, and if she is Supply, there will not be much overlap.   Shallan, I should assign you the role of adjutant on my staff.”

 Kaladin coughed and his eyes studied the ceiling.  Shallan’s hand covered her mouth to conceal her amusement; she sent a swift glance to Renarin, who appeared impassive behind his spectacles.

 Adolin flushed.  “You know what I meant!” he sputtered.

 Shallan patted him on the arm, smiling.  “Of course I know what you meant.”

 It was not really an effective consolation, for Adolin reddened further and ducked his head in his acute embarrassment.  Shallan found it delightful that not only could she make Adolin blush like that, but that he could manage it quite proficiently on his own. 

 “It would be a good idea,” said Adolin, speaking quickly.  “You would be allowed to dine with me instead of joining the junior officers’ mess tent.  The least I could do would be to ensure that oats do not make an appearance at breakfast or any other meal.  And if anyone were to make complaint about your, ah, behaving in a manner unfit for a representative of His Majesty, I could take care of it quietly.”

 “By that,” Kaladin offered, “he means if you sleep in past morning call, or make feminine hysterics, or if someone notices a woman entering your tent, Adolin will be the one to enforce discipline.”  His hands twitched, and he scratched at the shiny stripes of scarring on his palm.  “However, I have reason to believe that he would go easy on you.  From personal experience, the worst you’d get is a tongue-lashing.”  One dark brow rose upward, but the rest of his face was smoothly neutral.  “Perhaps you might even find yourself enjoying it.  Who knows, when it comes to dealing with Scots.”

 “Doctor,” Shallan said, “do I hear you promoting misbehaviour?”

 “Misbehaviour often tends to occur without the benefit of promotion.  It can be quite – spontaneous.”  His eyes flicked to Adolin, who was decidedly pink the face.  “Now, why don’t you practice marching on command?  We will have to use the spoken ones; you must learn to recognise the pipe, drum, and flag signals later.”

 The next hour and a half involved Shallan’s walking back and forth in the stillroom, with Kaladin and Adolin and occasionally Renarin calling out bits of advice – which often contradicted, or did not make any sense when seriously considered; they were half-misheard words from half-forgotten training sergeants that contained as much cautionary anecdote as they did helpful advice.  Shallan had not expected that being a common soldier should be that difficult – she had thought that acceptance to the Regiment required passing a physical examination of one’s sight and hearing, and some basic exercises done in the presence of the recruiting sergeant.  And for the non-combatant roles for pay masters, secretaries, cooks, smiths, surgeons, baggage drovers, and engineers, the examinations were far from stringent.

 His Majesty’s Home Regiment at Fort Shulin accepted women, often the wives and daughters of officers, for the non-combatant support positions.  But women were not allowed on the front; in times of war, men who held such position were transferred abroad, and their abandoned but necessary paperwork was managed by women.  It was not an appropriate role for a single woman, especially not a gentle lady of high station, for whom the prospect of a salaried occupation would have harmed her own prospects for marrying well.  That level of independence bestowed upon a young lady surrounded by many fit and active young men gave many – outside the military families – the impression that such a person would not make a respectable wife or a devoted mother.  Fort Shulin, with its long-held military tradition and regular hosting of galas for officers of noble blood, retained some level of propriety; on the front, however, standards were completely different, and completely unsuitable for maintaining a lady’s respectability.

 It was a good thing that Adolin was not so closed-minded in such matters.  They both knew she could never take the King’s shilling in her own name – and ladies were never expected, or even allowed, to take the shilling.  On paper they were informal auxiliaries and never granted a rank – they were addressed as Miss or, if married, Missus Lieutenant, and did not wear uniform; military discipline came as a simple dismissal, or very rarely, a firing squad in cases of outright treason.  Field discipline was in the form of the court martial’s cage.

 “You still march like a girl,” Kaladin said, arms crossed and looking bored; Shallan knew he found her antics entertaining.  “You need more swagger.  Imagine your head inflated three sizes larger than it is already, and that your trouser pockets are full of gold that you have to jingle about so everyone knows you have it.  Let Adolin show you how it’s done.”

“Here, like this,” said Adolin, counting paces beside her.  His strides were longer; Shallan had to take larger steps to keep up.  “You must put more emphasis on your shoulders and arms; it’ll be easier to find the pace when you do it with a musket on your shoulder and a pack on your back.  You, ah, move your hips too much.”

 Shallan glanced down.  She could see the shape of her knees and hips beneath the trousers; it was rather daring to imagine herself wearing something like it outside the House.  The long frock coat concealed much of her shape, and made her indistinguishable from any other untried but well-connected young officer fresh from the tutoring room, when viewed from behind.  Without it, and without the waistcoat, she was distinctively feminine.  Adolin didn’t seem to disapprove:  she had caught him watching a number of times.  And Kaladin too, once or twice, although he had the grace to be more subtle about it.  But she really needed a restrictive bodice to keep things locked down tight.

 “Do I really need to do all this when officers get to ride horses?” she grumbled.

 “Have you ever gone on horseback for ten hours?” said Adolin.  “You will eventually have to take a rest.”

 Kaladin snorted.   “It’s either walking or riding, Miss Davar.  I’m afraid even Adolin is not charitable enough for what you’d prefer.”

 “The roads are not very good outside the larger towns, and never in a winter campaign,” said Renarin.  “We use oxen trains to carry supplies overland, and it churns country roads to mud.  It is worse when it freezes.”

 “When it freezes,” Adolin said, “you will have to get off and walk or else your toes go numb.”  He was silent for a moment.  “Shallan, you needn’t do this.  It’s not too late—”

 “You have done this all before – even you, Renarin?” Shallan asked.  “Yes?  And you’re planning to do it again.  If you can, then I can.  My problem is a lack of education in these matters.  But then I have you all to help,” she said fiercely, feeling frustration prickle hotly in her eyes.  “We shall manage it together – it is what family does.”

 Adolin’s hand caught hers and gave a friendly squeeze.  She looked up at him, and he looked down at her, and she felt his sentiments of assurance and confidence; she knew he was uncertain about this choice of hers, but he was certain that it was a choice she thought as important as his own, and he could not begrudge her something that he did not deny himself – that was not done by an officer or a gentleman, and Adolin was both. 

 “Speaking of Family,” said Kaladin, interrupting their moment with his usual tact, “shouldn’t you be joining your own for dinner?”

 “Father and the Dukes are staying for now, while they get a military alliance hammered out,” Adolin said. “There’ll be dinners enough over the next few days that it shouldn’t matter if I miss a few.  I do not look forward to sitting beside Ruthar and Roion; they will just be haranguing at me for Sebarial’s getting the lion’s share of letters of marque.  If their own merchant fleets were equipped with two dozen cannon per hull, then I might actually find them worth listening to.”

 “Is Sebarial’s _Skyeel_ flagship?” inquired Renarin.  He looked thoughtful as he glanced at the wall clock.

 “ _Skyeel, Stormwarden_ , and Roion’s _Bowsprit_ lead the formation in the Channel until the other ships are refitted and armed.”

 “Renarin, Miss Davar – why don’t you go to the kitchens and see about bringing up a trolley for dinner?  Adolin and I must discuss … things … that will no doubt be incredibly tedious to you,” said Kaladin.  “Military matters, you see.”

 “Men’s things, you mean,” Shallan replied.

 “Exactly.”

 Adolin would tell her later if anything important had been discussed, thought Shallan.  She and Renarin – who did not look unhappy at being thus excluded – perhaps he was used to it, or perhaps he didn’t care – walked to the kitchens in uniform, and went ignored by the servants.  They were saluted without hesitation by common soldiers, and would have saluted higher ranking officers if they had seen any, but there were a scarce few higher than Renarin’s own rank of Major.  Most people, Shallan noticed, saw the uniform, and not the person wearing it; in that way it was not dissimilar to her experience in servants’ garb.  She had tied her hair back in the manner of a gentleman, and it was longer than what a gentleman’s barber might consider conventional, but her blue frock coat was the only thing people allowed themselves to see.

 “What do you suppose they’re talking about?” asked Shallan in a low voice.  She was still working on making it deep enough to pass as a boy reluctantly proceeding into the changes brought by manhood.  She had four brothers; she had heard them all go through it at one point.

 “You.”  Renarin’s response was swift; he did not obfuscate.  Shallan could not decide if the honesty espoused by Kholin men was a definitively good thing.

 “I see.”

 “I hope you do.”  Renarin paused, as he usually did when he spoke, and Shallan waited patiently for him to continue.  “You make my brother happy.  He thinks victory in duelling and on the battlefield make him happy, but it is only satisfaction.”

 “You can discern happiness from satisfaction?”

 “Most wretches can.”

 They were silent as a trolley was collected and loaded with covered trays of food.  A pitcher of ale was set on the lowest tier, along with a bucket containing a bottle of wine; Renarin inspected the label with a critical eye, but it appeared to pass muster.  He pushed the rattling trolley back through the gauntlet run of a hallway, and when they stood in front of the stillroom door, Shallan asked one other question she had been thinking about since morning.

 “Where exactly is Waterlô?”

 “In the Low Province of Wallonia, on the Continent.  Next to Flanders.”

 And then the door was opened and Adolin turned to them, grateful to see her, or at least grateful to see the food – he looked as if he had not enjoyed hearing whatever topics of discussion had been brought up in his conversation with Doctor Kaladin.  It was not bad news, she speculated, since Adolin did not look especially angry or distressed, but there was something different now, some sense of shyness when they had been so comfortable in one another’s presence only thirty minutes before.  Kaladin, the insufferable man – he must have said something to Adolin to make him once again timid in her company, when she had just gotten him to the point that she could kiss him in a room with other people – never mind that there was a curtain to shield the view; the result was still assuredly undesirable.

 They dined around the surgical table – with no tablecloth, and no centrepiece, and not even wineglasses for their drinks.  It was a slap in the face of respectability; it would have been irreparably appalling for the Shallan of six months ago to eat at a table where some poor soul had had his leg sawn off.  But this Shallan didn’t care, because she felt at home – and that was more of a comfort to her, and more of a home than she had felt at Loch Davar six months back.  There was plenty of food here, and plenty of good cheer and good company, and when she looked around the table, she did not see her hollow-eyed brothers in threadbare green wool.  She saw instead brothers-in-arms in the crisp cobalt blue uniforms representing purpose, and direction – and that was infinitely more preferable than the miserable directionless waiting – on something to happen, for someone to save the estate before the final shilling had been spent.

 Choice.  It gave purpose, and filled one’s life with the solidity of true substance.  Only if one had courage enough to take it.

 After dinner, Adolin and Renarin left to return the dishes and trolley to the kitchen.  Kaladin rinsed out the beakers, and Shallan went behind the curtain to change back into her dress.  The uniform she folded into neat square parcels in the travelling case; she imagined Renarin had a careful pattern of organisation for how he arranged his clothes, but she did not know it, so she settled on placing the heavier coat and trousers on the bottom, then the shirts, and then the rolled neckcloths on the top.

 “Doctor, what did you say to Adolin?” she asked.  “He was behaving somewhat peculiarly – he had difficulty looking either of us in the eye during dinner.”

 The drain in the scullery tub gurgled.  Kaladin straightened, but he did not turn around.  “Necessary things.  Of a personal nature.  If you are insatiably curious about it, you might ask him.  In fact, I rather recommend that you do.”

 “Couldn’t you – cut out the middleman, as they say?”

 “And what would be the fun in that?”

 Shallan scowled in what she hoped was a ladylike fashion.  She snapped the clothes case closed, and put away the boots in their nest of white tissue.  Time passed.  The door was knocked upon and swung open, and Adolin stepped through without Renarin.

 “Jasnah wanted to speak to him,” he explained, shrugging.  “I suspect she wants to find him a match after her last roaring success.  It is a shame that you have no sisters, Shallan.  That should make as neat and tidy an end as anyone would like.”

 “Not everything can be as neat and tidy as a serial,” Shallan said, gathering her satchel.  “Few things in life are.  But we struggle along, and make the best of what we can find.”  She was aware that this line of conversation could never be appreciated as congenial after-dinner chatter; she altered her course.  “I don’t suppose we can go to the retiring room anymore.  I might as well go through – I have been awake since dawn.  Shall we go up?”

 “I shall stay,” Kaladin said.  “Miss Davar, before you leave – you ought to take your things.”

 He offered her a sheaf of folded pages.  Her calculated progressionals, from her appointment.  Shallan took them casually, without looking; unbuckling her satchel, she stuffed them in, between her sketchbook and her pen box.  Something tucked between the papers fell out: a blue silk tassel.  She tugged on it, like a worm from an apple, and when she had it out, along with the bit of pasteboard attached to it, she held it up to Kaladin.

“You should keep it.  As a souvenir – I haven’t any need of it myself,” she said.  “And thank you, Doctor.  For everything.”

 He accepted it without comment, and slipped it into his pocket.  “Good-night, Miss Davar.  Adolin.”  Somehow his voice sounded ominously knowing – and contained the barest hint of amusement.

 Adolin offered his arm, and Shallan took it.  His other arm held the handle of the travelling case; Shallan had the shoebox.  When the stillroom door closed behind them, Shallan smiled.  It was a wicked smile.

 “Your room, or mine?”

 Adolin, to his credit, did not flinch at the question.  “Mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last full chapter to the story is finished. Characters have finished their development, or made a good start on it. The end of a Regency Romance is marked by the PoV main character girl landing the man. Once you get to that point, there's not enough "will they won't they" tension to keep the plot going. At this point, it genre shifts into a military historical drama. HAHAHAHA.
> 
> The Ghostblood card - it's an invisible ink. Waterlô, or Waterloo, is an important town for any stories involving Napoleon.  
> Kaladin the ambiguously ethical doctor - he has no spren, and follows in the "as long as I feel like it's right" school of ethics. This means he will invade people's privacy if he feels like it's necessary, as he has done to Shallan multiple times.  
> Lin Davar, Malise, and Shallan's Mother - a failed love triangle, based on my own interpretation of canon-SA with a Regency twist. Shallan's Mother and Father are darker versions of Mr and Mrs Rochester (Jane Eyre), the crazy wife locked in the attic. Malise loved Lin when she married him, but he never loved her.  
> "Heir and a spare" - happened IRL, and in Alethkar. Main character siblings only come in pairs for some reason - Gavilar/Dalinar, Jasnah/Elhokar, Adolin/Renarin, Kaladin/Tien. The Davars are weird for having 5, and I felt like there was a reason for it.  
> "Mother's death" - and Father's death have been foreshadowed for ages. Chapter 9 "sad girl with bloody hands and a mourning veil of ether fumes" was a reference to both of them. How she killed the Ardents was supposed to be Shallan (un)consciously re-enacting the trauma to order to accept what happened.  
> "Kaladin – he’s dead" - Shallan is talking about Lin Davar, Kal thinks it's Helaran.  
> "Buy a commission" - until the 1870's, officers got their rank in the army by buying them, and regiments were funded by noblemen pretty much being sponsors. IRL a Lieutenant rank would have cost ~£750, but you had to pay for equipment and servants.  
> "Court martial's cage" - Kaladin went to military prison for dereliction of duty (AKA desertion) before the events of this story.  
> "I took the King's shilling" - moment of truth for both of them here. If Adolin tried to lock Shallan up for her own protection, she would have run away because in her mind, it would make Adolin no different than her crazy father. Renarin, Kaladin, and Adolin accept her decision, and decide to help her, all for different reasons. And because of that, she is willing to trust them and start opening up.  
> "A tongue-lashing" - IRL 1860's slang. Kaladin is making a double-entendre, referencing a verbal reprimand and tongue kissing.  
> "Most wretches can" - if you haven't figured it out by now, a wretch is an in-universe name for an ether addict. I felt like I explained it enough so you don't need a glossary to understand from context.  
> "You have no sisters" - reference to many Regency romance plots where the PoV female marries the brother-in-law that she thought was annoying or arrogant for half the book. Let's get meta in here.
> 
> On Renarin - Renarin sees a lot of familiar things in Shallan, even if he doesn't know about the tragic childhood. He was prevented from training as a soldier for being born as an invalid, and sees that Shallan's limitation is her gender. He is aware that Kaladin has feelings for Shallan, but doesn't care enough to interfere unless Adolin is going to be directly hurt.  
> On Kaladin - He's still crushing hard, and thinks she is physically attractive - compare to when he thought she was a skinny spotted frog. He deeply respects her, and doesn't try to stop her when she's made up her mind because it reminds him of his own decision to leave doctor school and follow Tien. His parents would have stopped him, but he didn't care. He has accepted that he's the third wheel in the triangle, and doesn't believe in that nonsense that says men and women can't be friends after the friendzone happens. He is happy that Adolin has found worthy wife and sabotaging their relationship is too evil and selfish for him. He also killed Shallan's brother, so it's possible he thinks he's unworthy.  
> On Adolin - Adolin had his own problems at the start but Shallan getting over her problems and using that knowledge to help with him is very important to him, even though he doesn't know where she gets all that wisdom from. His whole life he has been expected to be the good son, the good soldier, and the good Duke, and part of his character's levelling up is accepting that he has a choice. Yes, he still has the potential to kill Sadeas, but in this AU he won't go blue screen afterwards because he has learned there's a difference between doing good and doing what's right. He also unambiguously loves Shallan, and if Shallan does not love him yet, she has come to a point in her development where she is not afraid to love him back.


	20. EPILOGUE

**SIX MONTHS LATER**

Lieutenant McRavad did not think much of Flemish winters.  In the Low Provinces, the sea was never far away, even inland as they were.  No, the sea made perfectly sure that its presence was known, when it surrounded the Kholin Regiment warcamp with a miasmic touch that filmed with rust anything metal that was not coated in grease or polished weekly.  It was humid and damp when they had first made their landing, four months ago – and by the tail end of winter, it was now chill and damp; the nights brought a constant and diffuse drizzle that the pale noontime sun only managed to elevate to a scarcely preferable grey mist.

 Winters in Scotland were better, Shallan thought.  It might be so cold in the highlands that each heaving inhalation felt like white-hot needles being pounded into lungs snap-frozen into immobility, and each whistling exhalation strained like staves against their barrel hoops, to finally shatter into a cloud of bloody slivers and seething white steam – but that was winter, and it knew it, and it was biting and bitter and _dangerous_ , and everyone knew that. 

 Flanders, conversely, was not so strict in observing the typical features of winter: it was either raining a lot, or it was raining a little, or it looked like it would rain soon.  The Lowlands were marked by their invariably flat topography: one could easily see the horizon, and beyond the next line of trees was always another line of darkly ominous clouds.  The march from the landing site of the _HMS Cobalt Guardian_ to the then half-constructed warcamp had been bearable for Shallan, when it hadn’t rained every day, but now that she had settled herself into the routine of living in a fortified encampment, she was grateful for her specially constructed boots.

 They were knee-high riding boots that from the exterior appeared to be of the same basic but well-made design that junior officers chose from a cordwainer’s pattern book, but hers were unique: several layers of cork hidden in the sole gave her an extra inch and a half of height.  Her only visible concession to stylishness was a slightly elevated stirrup heel whose flamboyance camouflaged the womanly gait she had not been able to completely disguise.

 Shallan – Lieutenant McRavad – wore a disguise inside and out, and it was the best costume and the most elaborate act she had ever in her life had the opportunity to audition.  Now the encampment’s muddy street with its footpath of roughly laid planks was her stage, but she could still quite capably tread the boards in the early dusk of a Continental winter, and her cork soles lifted her above the puddles of oozing mud so that her woollen socks stayed warm and dry.  Her regimental frock coat swept behind her; the extra layers of interfacing between the blue-dyed boiled wool and the silk lining held off the chill – and presented a set of slender, but still recognisably masculine shoulders to fellow soldiers, upon which were stitched the service patches of the Duke’s arms and the Supply Corps’ wheel and crossed swords.

 Bright circles of yellow lamplight glistened off the water-slicked planks of the path; the wind chuffed and hissed and blew fine droplets of mist-like rain into her face – they gathered into a net of glassy beads in red hair curling damp and unruly at her temples.  Shallan hugged the courier’s satchel to her chest, and strode confidently through the circle of lampposts to the central command quarters of the warcamp, where a series of pre-fabricated cottages had been built for the use of the camp commandant and the superior officers in residence.  The gatehouse guard waved her past their booth without a word.  The personal honour guard pacing under the awnings of the connected cottages were not nearly so obliging.

 The officers’ cottages could not be said to be elegant or sumptuous when viewed from outside – they were simple structures of wood roofed with zinc-rolled iron, sharing one wall on either side with the adjacent cottages; all were arranged into a square around a central courtyard which contained cistern, boiler, and sewerage channel.  It was not grand, but unlike a field tent, it could be both comfortable and dry.  Best of all, it had its own privacy – something that was regrettably lacking in a communal barracks or even the junior officers’ quarters where the only distinction between one man’s space and another’s was a bedsheet strung from a rope nailed to the walls.

 Shallan ascended the steps of the raised wooden platform, and paused to shake off a wet clump of mud from her boot heel.  She hooked the strap of her satchel over her shoulder, and tucked her hands into her armpits for warmth, eyes searching for the right door: they all looked quite similar in the misted half-light.

 “Lieutenant McRavad t’see Lieutenant Colonel Kholin,” she said firmly, in her throaty man’s voice, as figures detached themselves from a recessed doorway. 

 She played up her native Scottish accent to roughen the consonants – it made her sound slightly older, and unmistakeably foreign, whilst still retaining the impression of being a trustworthy friendly party who happened not to be _too_ foreign – and in possession of the natural hauteur of a noble lineage.  People would see the red hair and hear the accent, and its being so relatively unusual in the crowds of darkly complected Anglethis resulted in their not looking further – for anything else that might prove even more unusual.

 Two men bearing muskets – with bayonets, Shallan noted, since gunpowder was notoriously unreliable in wet weather – stepped in front of her, blocking the path.  They had dark hair and tanned skin and were at least half-a-head taller, even with the advantage conferred by her lifted boots.  Both wore the blue uniforms of the Kholin Regiment – not officers’ coats, but the double breasted, silver-buttoned jackets of the high command’s personal bodyguards.

 One man, sporting the silvery pockmarks of a powder-burn from his cheek down into his collar, gave her a thorough up-and-down inspection.  “The Lieutenant Colonel is busy: we just now brought in and filled his bathtub.  If you bear a message—” here his eyes flicked down to her satchel, “—you may leave it with us, and we will see it delivered.”

 “I guarantee that the Lieutenant Colonel will want t’see me,” Shallan said.  She held her ground, and settled into the relaxed yet still attentive posture of the _at ease_ drill command.

 “To-morrow, just like everyone else.”

 “This is important.”

 “To you, perhaps.”

 “T’you, I say.  Unless ye dinna care about being paid this week.”  Shallan angled herself toward the nearest lamp, and its yellow-white light fell on the Supply Corps patch on her shoulder.  She inclined her head and spared him a thin smile.

 The pockmarked guard glanced at his companion, who shrugged; with a final resigned look at Shallan, he walked several yards down the creaking wooden walkway, and knocked on the door.  His companion, a sturdy fellow whose hair was shorn in a soldier’s crop, remained in front of Shallan with his bayonet at the ready.  They waited.  The door was opened, and answered by the unseen Lieutenant Colonel.  There was a whispered conversation, and the guard saluted crisply and returned to Shallan.

 “The Lieutenant Colonel requests your presence, Lieutenant McRavad,” he said, the scars on his face twisting in disapproval.  “You’ve been given priority to disregard the chain of the command.  To-morrow, remember that calling is done during official calling hours.”

 “Lieutenant McRavad has seniority until I say otherwise, Sergeant Ilamar.  Please remember that,” said a voice from behind, with the careless ease of one long-accustomed to authority.  “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

 “Yes, sir,” said Sergeant Ilamar, saluting.

 “Sir,” said Shallan. 

 And then she brought her closed fist to her breast with the enthusiasm and precision of a fresh recruit, and saluted Adolin Kholin.

 Adolin, clad in the regimental blue of his officers’ uniform, returned her salute with a smile.  “I understand that there is important business to discuss.”

 “Very important, sir.”

 “No doubt.  Shall we, then?”

 “Sir.”

 She did not look back when she followed him to his door, and when he closed it, and wiped his feet on the rush mat on the threshold, she could not hold it in any longer; she covered her mouth and laughed and laughed, in the voice she had not used for what seemed weeks – the voice she could not hide away when she had reason to have a genuine laugh, which was rarer these days than she would have liked.  It felt good to be herself once more.  When she wore the Lieutenant’s uniform for too long without reprieve, it became all too easy to forget that there existed anyone else, inside or out.

 “Your bath is ready,” said Adolin, “I know you are not fond of the communal baths.”  He did not use his commanding officer’s voice; rather, it was coloured with warm affection, and everything else that was soft, intimate, and exceedingly inappropriate in the address of a fellow soldier.

 “Sometimes I think you prefer it that way,” Shallan remarked.

 She unbuckled the satchel and drew its contents out; the three books she placed on Adolin’s table, supposedly for dining – it contained a covered tray and ale flagon, and also numerous scraps of message slips, receipts, and hasty notes.  Most officers on the field made do with lap-desks or small portable secretaries – nothing more than lap-desks with legs – and Adolin owned both, but like most career soldiers he had not the meticulously well-ordered mind that made the Supply Corps so invaluable to the war effort.  Adolin might see the waging of an efficient war as a series of opportunistic pushes in the frame of a grand strategy; Renarin surely saw it as a prospectus – for an investment that would be fortunate to ever break even.

 Adolin’s shoe horn she used to pry off her boots; she threw her coat over his chair, undid her neckcloth and belt and waistcoat buttons, and then her shirt, until she stood in her drawers and the bodice she’d had made by a theatrical costumier who specialised in garments fit for a specific type of entertainer. 

 “Do you think you could help?” she asked.

 She felt him unknot the ties at her back; she’d requested hooks instead of the standard eyelets for the lacing to make it possible for her to do herself up in the mornings, and undo them at night without the luxury of a maid, but it took time, and she had more than once been found close to tardiness in the morning call-up because of it.  When the bodice fell off, the insistent crushing pressure that was her constant companion during daytime was suddenly released.  She had accustomed herself to wearing it – to the point where it had been relegated to a corner of her mind and nearly overlooked, but never – no, never – forgotten.  She took a breath of air and filled her unconstricted lungs.  It was almost, but not quite, like that first brisk breath of winter air, or the first searing breath of ether, but it was just as welcome, and just as refreshing.

 “I do not think I will ever like that – that contraption,” said Adolin, as his finger followed the pink lines down her back.  “I wish you did not have to wear it.”

 The seam lines containing the steel stays that made up the bodice’s boning did not chafe – she would not have paid the costumier in Kholinar’s entertainment district if it had.  It did exactly what she expected of it, and it was merciless in its effectiveness. 

 “That is something that a man would say, of course,” Shallan replied, and Adolin’s hands reached around her front, and gently traced the line of the pink puckered scar on her ribs.  “And it would be said more if I had more to compress.  But to my great relief, I do not.”  She leaned against him and closed her eyes, and she let his warm hands roam across her rain-chilled skin, to reacquaint themselves with a body that had become ropy and lean in the six months since he had first laid hand or eye upon it.  “There is work to be done, as always,” she said, “and though I am fond of you, it is not the only reason for my presence.”  She glanced at the books on the table, leather-bound official ledgers stamped with the wheel and sword insignia and the numbers of an official clearance rating.

 Adolin sighed; it stirred the soft hairs atop her head, which were pulling free of their ribbon tie as they dried in the warmth of the cottage’s iron stove.  “I wish there was less time spent on work, and more time for us.”

 “You would grow tired of me if that were the case.  I know that I do, when I am too long alone.”

 “I tire of being too long alone,” he murmured, and his arms circled her waist with the scratch of winter-weight boiled wool.  “And it is worse since I have known you.”  And his hand dropped to her hip and slid over the band of her drawers which lacked flounces and lace, but had a string tie that she knew he found just as enticing – or possibly even more.  He pulled at the tie; her drawers slipped slowly down to her knees.  “You should wash before the water gets cold,” he said, and then he unclasped her silver necklace and brushed a kiss to the shiny white patches of scarring on her shoulder.

 “And you should read over those ledgers.”

 Shallan stepped into the tin tub in front of the stove, hair unbound, and sank into the water that rose up around her neck; the warm water soothed away the memories of cold water that fell from the sky and blanketed everyone and everything with a miserable grey sogginess that wavered between the two unpleasant extremes of humidity and complete saturation.  She had thought she liked rain as it had always encouraged her in creativity – and she still did, she had to admit – but only when she was comfortably installed behind a window.  Windows in a military encampment were few and far between: they were a luxury, and only allocated to permanent structures intended for use by high command.  They were fragile to transport, and most buildings did not have any, or had very small ones that were used more often for telling apart night and day rather than appreciating a view.

 Things had changed much since she had left Loch Davar.  She was different to the Shallan of six months ago, who had thought herself hardened in the ways of the world, and even farther removed from the Shallan of a year ago, who was frightened by thoughts of the ways in which the world worked.  She felt fear on a regular basis – and this was a good sign to her; she no longer considered herself empty and broken – and she was hardened, and her hands were calloused, and she knew now there were things worse than merciful deaths within the walls of a manor house.  It was change – but she would not be afraid to call it progress.

 She used Adolin’s scented soap, and dried herself with his towels – monogrammed with his initials – and bundled herself into his dressing robe, which was long enough on her that the hem brushed her toes.  Adolin did not mind.  Whatever he had in his possession, whatever he could give – he could spare it, if it was given to her.

 When Shallan was finished, she returned to the dining table, and saw that Adolin had his coat off, and was bent over the open books with an ink tray at his elbow.  He dipped his seal ring into the ink, and pressed it onto a page in the ledger, and when he lifted it off, an impression of the tower and crown was left behind in a deep blue ink.  He signed his name over it while it was still drying.

 “Receipts of acquisition,” said Shallan, surveying the open ledgers over his shoulder.  “Renarin allows for an extra quarter margin for all supplies – an extra half to double if it is something perishable or necessary.”

 Adolin turned the page, his eyes following the line of numbers to the bottom-most figure, which was circled in red ink.  “I do not like the way the wastage margin applies to horses.”

 “That is why we have the margin on fodder – so we don’t waste the horses unnecessarily.”  Shallan was silent for a moment.  “And it applies to men as well.  But we don’t like putting a number on it, or even thinking about it.  Renarin is the only who does.”

 “Renarin … is not as frail as people think he is.”  Adolin signed the last receipt, dabbed at it with the ink blotter, and closed the book.  “The statuses next, and then the advisories, I suppose.  Have you eaten yet?”

 “No – not yet.”

 “Then you should share dinner with me.”

 He uncovered a tray to reveal a cold roasted capon, baked carrots and young onions, and a flat, dense loaf of brown bread baked in the camp’s field ovens.  There was no time or sugar to rise the dough into the soft and fluffy rolls suited for a gentleman’s table, and though the bread was not gritty, it was not wholly wheat flour – it contained a mix of barley and rye that varied by the week, depending on what could be bought from the local villages.  Simple fare, but it was filling, and better than the porridges and hard biscuits the enlisted men ate as their main staple.

 Shallan opened the second ledger and propped it open on the ink blotter as Adolin carved the chicken.  The statuses were weekly reports on the activities of the Kholin Regiment Supply Corps.  The Regiment had the most ponderously elaborate bureaucratic system of all of the ducal regiments – their ratio of non-combatant support staff to standing army was the highest – but it resulted in their Regiment’s being dangerously well-rounded with respect to firepower, manoeuvrability, and morale.  It was the most effective on the field, and also the most expensive to maintain.

 She waited until Adolin had poured the ale, and began summarising the notes.  “The supply barge is late again this week.  I expect when it arrives we will get an excuse for the weather being lousy – that or searches or tolls at every pier and lock.”

 “Military vessels don’t pay taxes,” said Adolin, tearing the bread into rough halves.  “It’s the Dukes.  They quibble about who pays how much for the war effort, and then the funds are held in escrow, and the goods are delayed until the money arrives.”

 “The men still need to eat.  Their stomachs – and ours – are not held in escrow,” Shallan said, irritably stabbing at a chunk of carrot.

 “I suspect that some of the Dukes are likely to be cash-poor rather than just miserly – Father writes that we are lucky to get the funds for supplies, late or not.  He uses the argument that if we don’t all pull together now, we shall all meet the guillotine later, and it won’t matter how much money we’ve hoarded if it will end up in enemy pockets.”  Adolin grimaced, and took a bracing gulp of ale.  “Might as well spend it now, while we still have our heads.”

 “Money,” Shallan muttered.  “We brought chests of gold sovereigns with us – but we can’t eat it.  We need the supplies, but it’s winter, and the locals have sold all their surplus and won’t sell us their breeding stock or seed grain.  Renarin recommends you sign the order for a requisition.”

 Adolin looked across the table at her, and his brows furrowed.  “I don’t hold with foraging – it’s not much better than stealing.”

 “The villagers have hidden their cattle in the woods; they are not perfectly honest in their dealings with us,” Shallan retorted.  “Whatever we take will be paid for fairly, in coin.”

 “They won’t have their stock in spring, and prices will be at a wartime high when we begin the campaign.” 

 “Then will you let your men go hungry?”

 Adolin gripped his fork with a savagery that bled the colour from his knuckles.  “They won’t starve – I can sign the order to trim the rations until the supply barge arrives.”

 “Then you will have to hang your own men for desertion and thievery,” said Shallan quietly, wishing that she did not have to be the bearer of bad news.  She did not like to see Adolin upset as he was now, and she still had no fondness for disagreement or confrontation, though she did not cringe away from the prospect as she had once.  Adolin did not enjoy arguing with her either, and Renarin used this knowledge to protect the Regiment’s interests: she was the one who brought Adolin the distasteful orders that he would have refused from any other officer.  Without Shallan’s acting as intermediary, they would have been set to a marked disadvantage.

 Adolin looked away.  “War is much simpler when all you have to do is point yourself in one direction, and charge at the other side.”  
  
 “Life can be simple if you want it to be.  All the complexity comes from choice.”

 “And I made the choice to be a soldier,” said Adolin.  His voice hardened.  “I will sign the order.  I do not want to, and I wish it were otherwise, but it must be done.”

 They returned to their meal.  Shallan picked at the bones on her plate, aware that Adolin was observing her with an interest that he was unsubtly attempting to conceal.  Daily exercise had increased her appetite, but she could never eat as much as Kaladin expected of her, and she had remained as slender as she had been – but she was undoubtedly stronger.

 “Do you regret becoming a soldier?” asked Shallan.

 “No.  It was the right thing to do,” Adolin answered.  “Do you?”

 Shallan took a sip of her ale.  She much preferred wine, but every tiny village in the area brewed its own beer – she could not taste the difference – and it was safe to drink, unlike the water that required a thorough filtration and boiling; on the march, it was laced with a combination of bitter powders to prevent the occurrence of unsavoury bouts of indigestion.

 “No, I suppose not.”  She hesitated, running a finger over the rim of her cup.  “Not yet, at least.”

 “And why is that?”

 “I’m afraid that once I have gotten used to wearing trousers, I should not like going back to skirts.”  Shallan smiled, knowing that this was one of the many regrets that could possibly be felt in future.  But it was the most trivial of them, and she wanted to be light-hearted, because Adolin tried to be, and it was a fitting counter to the dreadful anticipation that lingered over the whole camp, with the oncoming spring and the beginning of the first push through the Ardennes.  “The Society matrons would call _that_ loose behaviour – and they would call _me_ nothing less than wanton.”

 “I would not call you immoral,” said Adolin tentatively; discussions that veered onto such topics still brought to the surface his streak of bashful modesty.  “Or else I would be immoral too.”

 “If you were, I wouldn’t mind,” Shallan said, and her bare foot underneath the table rose up and brushed against Adolin’s knee.  “Your father would say that loyalty to King and Country is the greatest virtue that anyone could uphold.  Perhaps it excuses wantonness.”

 “So would marriage.”

 Shallan laughed.  “When did you become such a Society stickler?”

 “Since the day I knew that I loved you.”  He did not laugh. 

 This particular discussion was one that they had treaded and re-treaded many times before, and it made the both of them upset – not angry, never angry – but uncomfortably conscious that the situation had relegated them to being unwilling victims of circumstance.  She could not have married him in their two months at Kholinar Court, when the transports were being readied for the landing at Ostend.  Jasnah had tried to push them, but a rushed Society wedding with a special licence bought through heavy-handed philanthropy, or even worse, an elopement, would have been an implication that reputations were in need of preservation.  Hers, specifically.  The eyes of Society would be trained on her, in the expectation of a ducal heir in fewer than the requisite nine months, and she would never have been able to sneak away into her role as the Lieutenant McRavad.

 “It doesn’t mean anything – it’s just a paper, and a note in some Ardent’s book.  If it really mattered, then your married soldiers wouldn’t be visiting the girls in the village tavern.”

 “It would be a guarantee of security for you.  If – anything were to happen.”

 “My brothers have written to thank you for paying off the creditors and appointing a competent steward.  That is all the security I ever wanted.”

 “You could have the security of being my Duchess.”

 “I do not want to be your Duchess if you are not my Duke,” Shallan said hotly, and that was the truth of the matter; it was the dreadful certainty of honesty bared to its very essence.  She did not want to be a widow.  She would not have minded being a wife – but a widow, especially a wealthy one who bore a husband’s title, and lived on a husband’s maintenance – that would have been too much for her, to be surrounded by memory and thwarted possibility in a Family that could not be her family, in a House that could not be a home when it echoed in its emptiness.  Security was freedom to respectable ladies of quality; to her, this form of security would not have been anything but stifling.

 “Oh, Shallan,” Adolin said, in a voice that twisted and caught in his throat. 

 He pushed his chair back with a scrape, and rose, and Shallan rose to her feet also, and she hurled herself into his embrace, for she wanted – she needed, and with an anxious urgency – the comforting solidity of his presence, and he wanted her just as desperately.  Their limbs came together in a tangle, and his hand tangled itself in her unbound hair that fell in rough waves as it dried in the warmth of the iron stove.  It was not as long as it had been after Kaladin had taken a pair of a shears to it, but it was thick, and it curled almost unmanageably in the damp … and Adolin liked the way it fanned out in a mane of red on the blue of his pillows.

 Adolin held her in his arms, and returned her embrace, and then a hand slipped under the back of her knee and he carried her away from the table and to his camp cot.  The stretched lattice of ropes under the frame creaked as he lowered her down, and their weight settled on it, and Shallan let go; the edges of her borrowed dressing robe had flown open and she could not ignore her own state of undress when Adolin still wore his regimental uniform.

 “Don’t go,” she whispered, when Adolin stepped away to the table. 

 “I won’t,” he said.  And he returned carrying the ledger book, and her silver chain, and then he went to the travelling chest by the bed and drew out a silver hairbrush.  “Will you read it to me?”

 “Yes.  Of course.”  And she opened the book to the section marked _Week 17_ as Adolin seated himself on the narrow bed behind her, and clasped the silver chain around her throat, and ran the brush through her hair until it snarled on a knot.  His fingers unwound the hairbrush, and without tugging, he untangled her hair with the gentle patience she had grown fond of in the months since she had come to know him.

 _“‘The second barge containing orders seventy-three through seventy-eight arrived and were successfully installed in the Oostbrug mill by the Corps of Engineers,’”_ Shallan read.  _“‘The installation of mechanicals in the refurbished mill include a steam forge and stamping press, hydraulic pump, sawmill, and gristmill.  Estimates of production capacity are based on forecasted stream velocity and discharge – see Appendix Seventeen-Point-Three – and are expected to be within—’”_ she paused.  “You know, I will just summarise it from here.”

 “Please do,” said Adolin with a chuckle.  “I am glad you are here, or I would have had to go through all that myself.”

 “Renarin thinks in such a logical fashion that he expects everyone should be able to see the logic in it too, and understand it straight away,” Shallan said.  “Everyone thinks he is eccentric, but I expect in his mind we are the completely irrational ones.  Nevertheless, what it means is that he is trying to establish the camp in the model of a self-sufficient village, so we don’t bleed gold and ruin the local economies.  Or have margins reliant on the timely arrival of each supply barge.

 “With the mill and industries, we can train the soldiers during the off-season, to ensure their future livelihoods and produce goods and services to trade for raw goods – food, lumber, fibre – with the surrounding villages.  We don’t observe any guild charter regulations, so farmers will be coming to us to grind their grain and process their lumber, because we will take a smaller cut from the top – we can afford to; our labour is the cheapest when most of it is done by the mill engine.”

 “We try to earn local goodwill – but we will still commandeer their seed stock?” Adolin inquired, a frown tugging at his mouth. 

 “It will make the locals dependent on us.  We will be the only merchants in the area with manufactured goods in surplus, and we will happily take Anglethi sovereigns in payment.”  Shallan turned a page in the ledger.  “When the soldiers leave with the Regiment, the villagers will be grateful to take on the work.  This scheme cannot fail – you must trust Renarin on this.”

 “I trust him, and I trust that it will work.  It just doesn’t feel quite – right.”

 “What are our alternatives?”

 Adolin took a moment to silently untangle one particularly difficult knot in her hair – Shallan realised that she hadn’t been as fastidious about maintaining her appearance lately, not when she could only bathe quickly at night in the communal baths, when everyone had settled into their barracks or else risen for the night watch. She was also forced to share a small shaving mirror with the junior officers whose camp cots were separated from hers by a makeshift curtain.

 “I cannot think of any,” he said finally.  “It is hard to decide what is wrong or right when it comes to war.”

 “You would end up questioning whether war is wrong or right,” Shallan said, firmly.  “And that doesn’t help at all.  It is better to think in terms of victory and defeat.”

 “I whole-heartedly prefer victory.”

 “So would I,” she said.  “On the day the terms of surrender are agreed upon, we should find an Ardent, and get the licence—”

 “I have one already.”

 Shallan shut her eyes.  “Does the chaplain know?”

 “I left it blank.  No-one knows you are here.”

 “Good.”  She breathed a sigh of relief.  The consequences of being found out involved being tossed into the court martial’s cage – she would never meet punishment, not when she had the influence of a Duke and Lieutenant Colonel to soften the blow, or turn it aside altogether.  But she would be dismissed, and stripped of rank, and sent back to Anglekar on the next barge, in disgrace.  She knew that the Ardentry was not to be trusted – not when they had been so easily infiltrated in the past.

 “Shallan,” Adolin began, sounding hesitant – and concerned.  “If I am severely wounded—” the brush in his hand gave one last pass through hair that was now a smooth fall of silk; he set it aside.  “—Beyond any hope of recovery.  Or if you find yourself – _increasing_ – you must take the licence, and seek the chaplain.  Please, Shallan – promise me this.”

 Shallan closed the ledger and leaned back, and Adolin pulled her into his lap, and buried his face in her hair, and his arms twined around her and held her warm and close.  When she was like this, in _his_ company, she could shut her eyes, and it was laughably simple to imagine that they were still at Kholinar Court, watching the sunlight slowly wandering across the windows and through the canopy curtains, shifting from the bright yellow-white of noon to the deep oranges and dusky purples of sunset.  But now they were sitting on a folding camp cot in a one-room cottage in the dripping rain, and soon, she would be sleeping alone in her own camp cot.  And in a month or two, she would be attempting to sleep – for the near-constant barrage of artillery and musketry through the entirety of the night could not be conducive to pleasant dreams.

 “You know that is something I do not want – not like that.”

 “But _I_ want it, Shallan,” said Adolin softly.  He was not pleading; he did not plead.  But there was longing in him all the same, and it tore at her as she recognised it, and saw it reflected as a tiny and carefully ignored spark in herself.  “I promised once that you could have all the time you needed – to decide.  It is only a piece of paper to you, but to me – it is a regret.  And I do not want to live with regret.”

 “No-one should die with regret either,” Shallan said, feeling something blurring her vision, until her eyes swum with a liquid haze, as if she were viewing the world through the bottom of a bathtub.  His arms around her tightened, and the breath of his exhalation whispered through the loose strands of hair tucked behind her ear.  “Very well,” she conceded.  “If it comes to that, then I will do it.”

 “I find it very strange that upon our first introduction, I thought that I had no use for a wife, and you – well, you seemed perfectly eager to secure a husband,” Adolin said.  He shifted her in his arms, and drew her backward until they lay together on the narrow, creaking cot, his chest to her back, and her head tucked under his chin.

 “You needn’t remind me – I remember it perfectly,” Shallan mumbled into the pillow.  “I – I wasn’t myself then.  Not truly.  I was just … very lonely, without knowing that I was.”

 “I think I was just as lonely – and I didn’t want to know it.  How things have changed.”  His hand crept over her waist and clasped her hand in his own.  He had large fingers, rough with callous on the palm, and they scraped over the smooth freckled skin on the back of her hand.  “And now I have Shallan, who wears trousers, my Shallan who can prime and fire in twenty seconds.”

 Shallan laughed, and pressed herself against him.  “The local laundresses and tavern girls say Lieutenant McRavad is the prettiest officer in camp.”

 “I agree with that – you _are_ the camp’s prettiest officer.”

 “It used to be _you_ , you know,” she said, with a snort.  “Somehow you became less pretty when word got out that you were affianced.”  Her feet rubbed against his leather boots.  “I don’t think that discourages the greedy ones, though.”

 “They will just have to be discouraged, then.”  His hand slipped in under the edge of the dressing robe, and stroked against her bare leg.  It swept upward, rough skin to smooth – and then it stopped.  “Shallan,” said Adolin, unexpectedly hoarse, “you haven’t your smallclothes.”

 “If I knew you had prepared a bath for me, I would have brought clean things to change into.”  She smiled to herself.  “If it bothers you, I will borrow a pair of yours; I’m sure you won’t mind—”

 “It’s not necessary,” he said in a low voice.  His hand went to her waist and undid the tasselled tie of the robe, and flung it open.  “I do not mind – not at all.”  For a few seconds he laid his hand flat against her stomach, and then it dipped lower, and then even lower.

 Shallan closed her eyes, and sighed, and Adolin fluttered kisses at the back of her neck and whispered things to her that made her blush, when she thought she was long past blushing; if she at any point in her life could be named the innocent maiden, she was certain the window of applicability for that particular description had long since been and gone, and she did not miss it, not when she had this wonderful man who could—

  _“Hmmmm,”_ said Shallan.

 “I like it better when you say my name,” Adolin murmured, his lips at the shell of her ear.  He nibbled at her earlobe.  “Or better yet, that one time when you said that you l—”

 “You misheard me,” she grumbled, squirming in his grasp, feeling frustration in the form of an itch that prickled at her skin and drew it as tense as a drumhead.  He held her close, and his hand returned, and she panted and sighed in his embrace, until finally she rested against him, limp and trembling, and her hair stuck to her forehead and her cheeks and lay strewn over his pillow.

 Men _could_ be trained.  And there were plenty of things to do between _this_ and _that_ , and she found that she liked most of them, and Adolin liked them too, and liked them all the more if she professed herself partial to any one or the other.  It had been unpleasant at first, admittedly, and desperately close to awkwardness – she could not call it humiliating, but she had not thought it enjoyable, and upon that moment realised why many saw it as a tiresome contractual obligation, and acceded to the keeping of kept women, so long as it was managed discretely.

 It had brought her to tears – not joyous ones – and the next day Adolin could not bear to look her in the eye, and for three days after that, he had been afraid to even touch her, lest he hurt her even more.  She had spoken to Kaladin, who rolled his eyes and told her that her hastiness had a nasty habit of landing her in undignified situations; he had walked away afterward as if his explanation was at all helpful.  And she had spoken to her maid, who was much more sympathetic about these things, and knowledgeable besides.  To her satisfaction, she had discovered there were many _this_ es that she liked before one proceeded to _that_ – and the more _this_ ing one did, the less distressing became _that_.

 The rope frame of the camp cot creaked as Adolin rolled away, and she heard him kick off his boots, and the rustle as he divested himself of his waistcoat and neckcloth, then shirt and trousers; he folded them neatly and put them away.  She heard the lid of his travelling chest open and close.  The bed creaked again when he returned, and he fell in beside her, and pulled the blanket over the both of them.  She tore the dressing robe off and it fell to the floor, and then she rolled around and nestled her head against his bare chest.

 She knew it bothered Adolin, and more so in the beginning, that they had – _they were_ – engaging in activities more suitable for those married rather than those merely engaged.  It was intimacy of the first order, and in this they had become truly intimate; they shared a closeness that was closer than many married couples had with one another, especially within the ranks of nobility: those who had married for the advantage of a smart match when they could not be spared the happiness of a love match.  If he considered a formal arrangement preferable, she did not consider it necessary; the business with Loch Davar had long since been resolved as part of Adolin’s dower settlement.  She held his trust, and his support, and his – his _heart_.  She had them without a paper saying they were hers – as if a paper could give her these things – and they were more solid, more substantial, than any paper could ever be.

 They lay under the woollen blanket afterward, and although it was uncomfortably hot, each was too content in the other’s company to make much of an effort to repair the issue.  Adolin curled an arm around her waist, nuzzling at the back of her neck; his warm breath and inquisitive mouth stirred the strands of her hair that stubbornly clung to her shoulders and his cheek.  It was always pleasant, when she could hear his heart beating, and there was nothing between them to muffle the sound but skin and bone; she could count them to ten, and then ten again, and each time she counted it took a little bit longer, until Adolin said her name in a soft and sleepy voice, and other things that were soft and warm and capable of filling the ragged cratered scars of her marked spirit.  And every time he said such things, they ached a little bit less – because he believed in them, truly, and that granted her the confidence to believe that they were true.

 Later, one of the lamps dimmed, and flickered out, as the oil reservoir ran dry.  Shallan became aware of the passed time, and she sighed, and reluctantly slid out from beneath Adolin’s arm and his blanket.  She swung her legs off the edge of the camp cot.

 “Don’t go,” Adolin groaned, pushing himself up to a reclining position.  “I wish you’d stay the night.”

 “Husbands and wives don’t sleep in the same room,” said Shallan, digging through Adolin’s basket of folded laundry until she found a clean pair of drawers.  She pulled them on, tied the waist-string, and found her socks, and then her bodice.  “Not if they’re civilised.”

 “But we’re not husband and wife.”

 “Then Sergeant Ilamar will suspect we’re illicit lovers.”

 “Sergeant Ilamar,” muttered Adolin, rolling off the bed; he helped her lace up the hooks on her bodice.  “He will no doubt warn me that you are trying to influence me – to win your step, or something of the sort.  He means well, I know it, but he can be very stubborn.”

 “To be fair, I went from being an unknown to your adjutant,” Shallan said, breathing shallowly as Adolin got to the top row of hooks and pulled them in as far as they would go.  “They say Lieutenant Colonel Kholin is partial to redheads.”

 “Do they?”

 “Well, only the laundresses do,” Shallan admitted.  She buttoned up her shirt, straightened the starched collar points over her silver chain, and let Adolin tie her neckcloth with the deftness of familiarity.  “I’ve been hinting that the future Duchess Kholinar is a cousin of mine, and so far people can readily believe it if it turns out to be purely nepotism.”

 She put on her waistcoat, and then tugged on her trousers and her heavy riding boots, and finally gathered her hair into a gentleman’s tail and tied a ribbon around it.  The frock coat in regimental blue went on last.

 Adolin handed her the courier’s satchel.  “Will I see you again this week?”

 “Renarin and I are for Ostend – to secure futures contracts for the coming campaign.  We leave in two days,” she said.  “Then we are to meet with your uncle the Graf von Iriale.  Renarin speaks the language – we have hopes to borrow a few thousand men, or at least manage another supply line.”  She slung the satchel over her shoulder.  “You know how it is – the Supply Corps does all the work now, and your Infantry does the work later, and then the Medical Corps has to clean up after.”

 “Ah, you’ve discovered the old service rivalries.  We’ll make a real soldier of you yet, Lieutenant,” said Adolin, and he smiled, and brought his arms around her in a close embrace, pressing his lips to her forehead.

 He wore the dressing robe she had earlier discarded, and Shallan had on her Lieutenant’s uniform once more – it was an amusing reversal of their previous state of dress and undress.  And because she was curious, she slipped her hands beneath the edges of the robe and what she found made her giggle.

 “No smallclothes, Lieutenant Colonel?”

 “You took mine!”

 “I did not say that I mind,” she replied, with a smile.

 Then Adolin bent his head over hers and his mouth sought her mouth with a fierce hunger that had only barely been placated: it knew what it wanted, and now it found itself wanting; it was acquainted with the knowledge that such desires could be infectious, and had potential for reciprocation.  Shallan raked her hands through his yellow-and-black hair; if it had been messy before, it was even messier now, but Adolin didn’t care.  His hands slid down to either side of her hips, and through her trousers she could feel the grip of his fingers.  She knew what he hungered for, for she hungered for the very same thing, and it was sorely tempting.  But she couldn’t stay, and with a disappointed sigh, she pulled away.

 “Good-night,” she said, and rearranged the drape of her neckcloth.  “Or _‘slaap lekker’_ , since I really ought to be practising more.”

 “Good-night, Shallan,” he returned.  “I will see you upon your return, and I shall look forward to it.”  And then he leaned forward and brushed her cheek with a light peck, and said in the softest of whispers: “I love you.”

 She opened the door, and in gusted sprinkling droplets of rain; they scattered over the rush mat and the floorboards and the wax-polished toes of her riding boots.  She stepped out into the night, and the wind stole away the warmth of her body, but it could not touch the warmth that smouldered within her.  She did not say good-bye, nor did she think it.  It was something she and Adolin didn’t say to one another; they hadn’t spoken of the matter directly, but to her, the words would have been painful to say aloud – it would have been too final a conclusion – and she imagined that the feeling was mutual.

 Sergeant Ilamar glanced at her with a wary eye when the door closed behind her, and she passed him in his rounds.  He, apparently, could not find any evidence of wrongdoing or ungentlemanly conduct; Shallan had made quite sure that her appearance complied with the strict standards of the Regiment and the Codes of War.  Reluctantly, he brought his fist to his breast to acknowledge her as a superior officer with priority – although she was of a different service than he, Lieutenant McRavad had the post of staff adjutant.  Shallan returned his salute promptly, and descended the water-slicked steps to the path, and then out from the circle of lamplight of the command quarters.

 It would have been sensible to return to her own barracks – to the room with a shared stove that the junior officers took turns feeding in the middle of the night.  It was an oblong box of a place built by the Corps of Engineers to be temporary and efficient, and in that it was adequate; a designation of “sufficient” was considered high praise to the Engineers, whose tendencies leaned toward asceticism as often as it did for the officers in service of the Supply Corps.

 She did not return to the barracks.

 Her feet followed the path automatically, as they had done every grey lamp-lit dawn, until she stood at the door of the Supply Corps office.  She drew the key from her satchel, and stepped inside, and climbed the dim stairwell with only one small flickering night lamp to shed light on the steps ascending to the second storey, until she reached the simple open-plan room furnished with rows of plain but functional wooden desks, amid towering bookcases and ranks of filing cabinets. 

 Shallan opened her desk drawer and with her clockwork firestarter, lit the chimney lamp; she placed the three ledgers from her satchel on top of the blotter, next to her desk diary.

 She heard creaking footsteps emanating from the office in the back.

 The pistol from the bottommost drawer was in her hand within seconds.  She forced a paper-wrapped cartridge down the pistol’s barrel; it was a tight fit with the larger size of lead shot that she used.  Shallan had only one shot and she aimed to make it count, with a man-stopper of a bullet that dispensed with the necessity of carrying an officers’ sidesword – one shot would be enough when it broke bones and punched a hole in a man’s ribs that could accommodate a clenched fist.  Of course, she had only ever done it with the hanging carcass of a hog.  Most soldiers relied on muskets in volley fire to incapacitate an enemy – a pistol was only useful in short range or indoors, for personal protection.  Nevertheless, it was perfectly appropriate now.

 The office at the end of the room had its own locked door, and contained the more sensitive files pertaining to the Regiment’s financial situation.  It was Renarin’s office, and like most sensible people, the Major would be in his own room at this time of night.  But she was not a sensible person, and neither, it seemed, was this intruder.

 She stepped carefully around the desks, sliding her feet over the joints in the planked floor that had loosened from continuous traffic in the daytime.  When she reached the end of the room, the yellow illumination of a night lamp glowed from between the gap of door and floor.  She gripped the handle – it was unlocked; it did not look like it had been forced – and then she heaved the door open – and pointed the barrel of the pistol at this guest who for some reason had midnight business with the Supply Corps.

 “Good evening, Lieutenant,” said Doctor Kaladin, his back presented to the door.  His hands were busy sliding open the narrow rectangular drawers of Renarin’s scroll cabinet.  The scrolls were heavy hand-pressed rag paper or vellum, sealed with ribbons and medallions of wax: it signified that these formal documents were expensive and important.  Most were large contracts with various factors, or notes of ownership for goods that lay in foreign warehouses or had yet to be produced – a tenth of next spring’s wheat production from the local farming communities, or oakum that was still only pine tar somewhere in a Sverickan cellar.

 Shallan lowered the gun.  “He has signed the requisition, you know.”

 “He could never say no to you.”

 “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

 “Restraint and moderation are good things.  Their deficiency – if it is not a bad thing, it is not far from it,” said Kaladin.  Then he sniffed.  “You smell like his soap.  It would do you good to understand the meaning of moderation, too.”

 “Some say cleanliness is next to godliness.  And some also say you are deficient in both,” Shallan snapped.  “Why are you here?  If you disagree with orders, this should be the last place to make your complaint.”

 Kaladin slid the scroll drawers closed, and turned to face her.  “I felt that the orders were in need of a small postscript.”

 His hand slipped inside his coat and drew out a battered leather document wallet.  He unfolded it on Renarin’s vacant desk and brought out a half sheet, which he placed flat on the desk blotter.  Shallan scanned the first lines and skipped to the circled numbers at the bottom. 

 “A five-fold increase for imports of citrus syrup,” she muttered, reading, “Ground shell and bone meal … seven hundred spheres sterling.”  She looked up.  “We already order these things, enough for everyone in camp.  This is three years’ worth at once.  These – aren’t for the soldiers, are they?”  Kaladin was silent.  Shallan continued.  “Adolin would have approved this.”  For a moment, she paused, turning over the information in her mind.  “Renarin wouldn’t have noticed.”

 The Kholins: not only were they capable and competent, but they were honourable – or as honourable as one could be when they lived their lives according to a rulebook written in the times when cannon horses carried armoured knights into battle, and every stately home welcomed troubadours.  They were also, if succinctly described, mentally direct.  They set themselves a goal, and then they would be single-minded in its achievement.   Renarin’s task was ensuring the men under his brother’s command could have dinner every evening, clean socks if they wanted them, and when they faced danger on the battlefield, they would never be in danger of running out of powder or shot.  That was his task; anything else would have been extraneous in his mind. 

 And that lack of – of warmth, Shallan realised, was the reason that the servants of Kholinar Court did not want the Marquess Kholinshire as their next Duke.  Renarin tried to be warm, when he remembered, or perceived it to be a relevant emotion to display in conversation.  But it did not come naturally, in Adolin’s careless easy manner: he was by nature reserved and any attempt to the otherwise would have seemed false, or else contrived.  Renarin, to his credit, was direct as he was competent – sometimes unsettlingly so – and he was commendably efficient.  But she could not think him empathetic – at least not for the faceless thronging Flemish villagers.  He was not one likely to be generous when sufficient would do.  Once he found the mark with his usual precision, he had little reason to exceed it – and gratitude was not what his tidy and rational mind would consider fair payment.

 “Ensuring local good-will is just as important as ensuring that there will still be locals a year from now,” said Kaladin.

 “The spirit of charitability makes its appearance in our all-loving doctor,” Shallan said, taking up the paper.  “Are you finished here?” 

 Shallan did not wait for an answer.  She spun around on her heel with a brisk air of martial decisiveness, and returned to her own desk.  It was the only desk with a lit lamp; the rest of the office was shrouded in darkness.  The sole square window on the wall was shuttered for the night; there were few windows when the constant damp mildewed papers that weren’t kept locked away with troughs of powdered chalk.  Behind her, she heard drawers shutting, papers rustling, and the sound of metallic clicks from the lock on the door.  She ignored them, and tucked the half sheet addendum into the receipt ledger – the one Adolin had signed off earlier.  The functionaries who processed the orders of payment would accept it as official when she presented the books in the morning.

 “You should not be so dismissive of the locals, Lieutenant.”  Kaladin’s voice suggested he was being dismissive of her.

 “I find their language tiresome.”  She slipped her hand into the desk drawer and felt around for her book.  _“‘Chapter Three: on the distinction between_ het _and_ de _’,”_ she read aloud.  She reached into the drawer once more, and set a bottle of whisky on the desk.  _“‘Het fles’_ , but also _‘de flesje’_.  Their language – sometimes I feel like I should understand it, when I see the words written down and can discern their meaning, but when it is spoken, it is – beyond _strange_.  Do you want some?”

 She unstoppered the bottle, took a small sip, and winced.  It was whisky infused with ridgebark – and it made studying late at night tolerable, when she was off-duty and had licence to indulge – when there was no-one to quote the Codes of War at her – and when wine, her drink of choice, was nowhere to be had.  Kaladin took the bottle, and tipped it back for a mouthful.  He did not grimace at the taste of ridgebark, and pushed the bottle back over the desk to her.

 _“Het.  De.  Het.  De.  Het is feest_ , _”_ she said.  _“Een eenmansfeest – is het ergste soort feest.”_ Then she took another sip. 

 “You find it so tiresome, but here you are with ridgebark and a book,” Kaladin remarked.

 “Many of us find ourselves doing things that need doing, whether or not we like it.”

 “Indeed.  I find it commendable to see you so studious.”  He paused, and his voice was more careful.  “It may prove useful.”

 “Of course it will be – why else would I bother?”  She hesitated, as his dark brows drew together in thought.  “You think a friendly relationship with the locals will prove valuable.”

 “Yes,” he said, and seated himself on the desk opposite her, within her little circle of lamplight.  “If this war goes badly, they may be of help to us.”

 “Ever the optimist, Doctor.”

 “Foresight can be remarkably useful sometimes.  No, if the Regiment – breaks – and we must make an escape, the best course of action from here is to go overland to Vlissingen, and seek a ship for Kharbranth.”

 “Kharbranth, of all places?”

 “The Channel blockade makes things difficult.  It is better – and safer – to be Duchess-in-exile in neutral Kharbranth, until there is a negotiation for truce.”

 Shallan stretched out a hand; Kaladin quickly slid the bottle out of reach.  “And what of my Duke?  I don’t want to be Duchess, let alone in exile, in Kharbranth!”

 “Shallan,” said Kaladin, “if the war goes badly for us here, it will go badly for Anglekar, and any son of yours will be fifth in the succession, after Renarin.”

 “I don’t want to be regent-in-exile either,” Shallan said bitterly, flipping through pages in her book with no real interest.  “I only want my family.”

 “Then go back to Scotland.”  Kaladin’s voice was sharp.  “Stop playing with Adolin.  Marry him or don’t marry him – I do not care – just decide if you want him, or go back to your own family.”

 Shallan closed her eyes.  “My family is here.”

 “Then make it official.”

 “I – I can’t.  Not now.  Not yet.”

 “So you don’t—”

 “The day his heart stops beating is the day mine is torn through.”

 He was silent.  Then he spoke, slowly, carefully.  “All wounds heal with time.  Even those wounds.”

 “You have said in the past that I could find my peace, and I did.  I found it, and I found forgiveness, and strength,” said Shallan.  “To be wounded like that, when I have known how it feels to be whole – I would seek _mercy_.”

 Kaladin’s lips flattened in disapproval.  “If that is meant to be a joke, I do not find it amusing.  Nor would I support you in such an endeavour.”

 “No.  I did not think you would.”  Shallan’s fingers idly folded over a corner of her textbook page.  “I have a plan.  Adolin, I know,” she said, “has an impulsive streak that would not allow him to abandon his men, even for a lost cause.  I imagine he would rather go out facing the guns and cannons of the field than quietly surrender or submit to the guillotine.   Heroic, no doubt, but I still find it objectionable.”

 “I expect someone has told you about his stubbornness in Ireland.”

 “He would not be here if not for you.”  Shallan bit her lip, feeling pride stick to her throat.  “He – we both of us – owe you a great debt and it is not something easily repaid.”

 “I do not ask for payment,” Kaladin replied, folding his arms.

 “That is why I dare to ask a favour,” said Shallan.  Pieces were falling into place.  Where they didn’t fit precisely, she took a sharp knife and trimmed them so they did.  “If we are on the verge of a defeat – and if he tries to do something like that again, he must be stopped.  With ether, if necessary.  I can calculate his progressionals – if you administer the rag.  Then I will find us passage in Vlissingen, and we will go to Kharbranth.  Together.”

 “We would betray his trust, and he would betray the Codes, and the men he commands,” Kaladin pointed out.  “And the King of Kharbranth does not recognise the sovereignty of foreign titles.” 

 “It is better than the alternative.  He might be angry – but when we take choice away from him, the responsibility falls to us – to me.  And I do not care,” said Shallan.  “I am selfish, and I do not care about that either.”  Her hand went to her throat, and she felt the silk of the blue neckcloth that Adolin had tied for her.  “Wealth speaks a language anyone can understand.  And I wear wealth around my neck.  Silver or aluminium – neither taste anything like food.”

 Kaladin rubbed a weary hand over his eyes.  “That is as absurd a plan as I have ever heard.”

 “You don’t have to help.”

 “I didn’t say it was a bad one.”

 “Oh,” said Shallan.  “If it pleases you, we will likely all end up middle class together.”

 She suddenly remembered the word that had been spoken to her in the servants’ hall, months ago.  One of the watchwords of the revolution was – _egalité_. 

 “It would not displease me.”

 “Nor I,” she said, and smiled.  “I would not mind so much if the man I married made me plain Mrs Kholin.”

 “No-one could think Mrs Kholin plain, especially not Mr Kholin,” Kaladin said.  “We prepare for all eventualities, but it may not ever come to pass.  For now – for always – we live in hope.  And we toast victory.”

 “To victory,” Shallan said, and when she took up the whisky bottle, Kaladin didn’t stop her.  She took a healthy swig, and held it out to him, and he drank too, and the bitter aftertaste of ridgebark tasted less bitter after every swallow.

 “To Kharbranth,” he said.

 When the whisky touched her lips and numbed them, she felt it buzzing on her tongue and dripping warm down her throat to join the warmth smouldering inside her.  When she said the words _‘_ _Together in Kharbranth’_ aloud, she liked the sound of them, more than the sound of _‘_ _Duchess Kholinar’_ – which was rather a mouthful, when she considered it.  _Together in Kharbranth._   They were three words she didn’t mind saying, or thinking about – they were words, and they were also feelings and sounds and tastes and memories. 

 How life took such twists and turns that the destination she sought a year ago would be the same destination she might find herself seeking a year from now.  But the journey was different – the journey was always different – and this time though it might appear a full circle, re-treading the steps that had been taken in the past, something had changed.  _She_ had changed.  And she was glad of it, and it felt good to know it – to know that she was no longer alone.

  _Victory._

 The taste of it was bittersweet. 

 If – _when_ – she became the Duchess Kholinar, it would only be to accept her place as an equal to the Duke Kholinar.  She did not want elevation for the sake of it – or to fulfil someone else’s Grand Purpose; she did not want to be a great lady, or the leading light of Society.  She only wanted Adolin.

 Adolin would willingly give her whatever she wanted, and whatever he had he willingly shared with her, the material and immaterial alike – out of the depth of the affection he felt for her.  And she, out of the depth of affection that was returned, could accept what he gave – things he gave to no-one else, things that could never be given back.  She had them, and she kept them and carried them with her, and she did not mind having them; they were not a burden – they were a delight, and not the cage that she had long feared and unconsciously dreaded.   She decided that she could share his title, and his name, and she could wear a Duchess’s coronet like she wore the chain about her neck – it was only as heavy as one thought it was.  It was only perception, after all.

 And if he called her _‘_ _Mrs Kholin’_ , when they were together, and alone, no-one had to hear.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe, Flanders is a province in the United Provinces of the Lowlands. IRL, this confederation would be the modern countries of Belgium, the Netherlands, and Luxembourg. This AU follows an alternate history and alternate timeline to IRL Earth.  
> "Fortified encampment" - in the Shattered Plains, the warcamps are built into craters for protection against highstorms. In this AU, warcamps are built as star forts, for maximum cannon defence.  
> "The guillotine" - Let's just say that Napoleodium and the new world order don't really care much for old-fashioned hereditary nobility.  
> On the hairbrushing - YMMV if you think it is emasculating when Adolin is supposed to be top Shardbearer tough guy in SA-canon. Adolin in this story is an effective commander, but when he is around Shallan he is the sensitive nice guy - compare his interactions with others. Personal hygiene and grooming is very personal to most people, and it implies a high level of intimacy and trust if you let your significant other into the "personal space sphere". In a Regency context, there are men's and women's roles (SA-canon has gender restrictions), and there are servant and master roles (SA-canon light and darkeye distinctions). It is the job of the lady's maid to brush a lady's hair, and the fact that neither Adolin nor Shallan care about it means that they share similar values, are comfortable with each other, and view each other as equals. Shallan in the beginning was uncomfortable with being dressed by her maid, to show she was used to being alone, and not having friends or outside support. So it shows she is opening up to people, and trusting them, and she really likes touchy-feely, which Adolin likes too. He has nervous tics like summoning and dismissing or talking to his Shardblade, and doing a repetitive task for a girl he likes is very calming. Kaladin in comparison isn't a PDA type of guy – another reason why he and Shallan are unsuitable romantically.  
> Shallan as the Duchess - after wearing pants and being a man, she realises that being a high ranking woman means having way less freedom, even if it is the fancy life. She is afraid that it will be a golden cage, imposed by Society rather than her husband. Shallan from Ch.1 wanted the marriage and didn't care about anything else - and now she is fine with having everything but the marriage. If she marries Adolin and he dies, she gets stuck in a cage with no fellow cage-dweller to make it bearable - that is what frightens her. Compare to Navani, who is considered an old has-been after her husband dies and her daughter-in-law becomes the true alpha queen bee of Society.  
> Oakum - historically used for waterproofing boat hulls. It is made from boiling pine sap, which was for a long time a major Scandinavian export. In this AU, "Sverickan" means "Swedish" and the IRL word for their country is "Sverige".  
> "Cleanliness and godliness" - IRL Francis Bacon quote from the 1600's, in the context of high-mortality plagues.  
> "Citrus, shell, bone meal" - Vitamin C, calcium, and protein dietary supplements. Historically, the British Navy used lime juice to prevent scurvy, which was a problem before there were preservation methods for food other than salting, pickling, or smoking.  
> On Renarin - Renarin is not useless. He is pretty pragmatic, and focused, and when he gets into his role he can be scarily effective like Blackthorn Dalinar. When he wants things done, he will do it, and ramifications come later - like when he jumps into the arena and has a seizure. He is good at preparing but not really good at improvising. If Renarin is the brains of the operation, Adolin is the heart. The Edgedancers' Oath "I will remember those who have been forgotten" is not really Renarin's thing.  
> On Kaladin - he doesn't care about privacy and personal space. When he was a bodyguard in canon-SA, he was always poking around people's stuff (Adolin's fashion folio) and eavesdropping, and speaking in other people's conversations (menagerie date). But he tries to be a good guy and protects civvies, even if no character in this story can be morally squeaky clean. Bonus – the scars on his hands are from shrapnel, and the palm scars are from school whippings. He also has a tattoo of the service patch of “Cannon Crew Four” of the Sadeas Regiment. If he ever got a shirtless scene, I would have done an accompanying illustration.  
> "Kharbranth" - parallel to Napoleon's exile in Elba. High nobles who get caught by the enemy become political prisoners or puppets, or get the guillotine. Obvious book-ending here, if you can't tell.  
> On being middle class – Shallan is beginning to unconsciously share the ideals of the Organisation. It’s open ended whether she will look for Mraize in Waterloo. It is also a nod to the end of WoR where Shallan and Adolin’s rank difference stop mattering when she is revealed as a Radiant.


	21. END CREDITS

This fanfic unexpectedly crept up to novel length, hah. It's longer than Twilight, and most YA novels, at over 140k words and 300+ pages long on word processor and in ePub edition. There are 38 original illustrations scattered throughout the chapters, averaging one picture every 4k words. If this were published as a real book, it would probably be 400 pages long after formatting, which is pretty impressive for something that only started as a single chapter (Chapter 1) written as a joke and an experiment.

The story came about after wondering what the canon SA characters' personalities would be like if the things in their past were different. Most of it's extrapolating from my interpretation of their original canon characterisations, and it makes an interesting character analysis if you bothered to read into it. YMMV on the way you read the characters, of course, but the self-pity from SA-Kaladin in the prison cell and SA-Renarin I found kind of annoying, even if it was justified by sad and broken childhoods. It made me wonder what it would be necessary in terms of backstory in order for them to be less whiny and grumpy. So this AU's Kaladin lacks the traumatic slave life, which, in a world without magic or Stormlight, would have killed him. Renarin in this AU was allowed an education, and learned reading and arithmetic. While he can't fight as a soldier, and he can't be an engineer like Navani, or a theoretical mathematician because that is considered frivolous, his role in the army makes him feel useful and gives him purpose and appeals to his strengths, which keeps him out of the Honor Chasm. I imagined AU Renarin to have the same skill at numbers as canon-Renarin, without the supernatural aspect - just like Shallan has her drawing talents and memory, even if it isn't magically photographic. Where AU Renarin uses his skills for accounting and economics while occasionally venturing into oenology and gambling, Shallan uses hers for pervy pictures and "imagination spots". I changed Shallan's jokes to be more appropriate for the setting, because I didn't find her constant childish potty humour from SA to be funny. So while she can be immature in this story, I wanted her to appear more clever than the cheeky end of rude.

The prose was inspired by Regency authors, and many not so accurate period romances, but the tone changed early on because you can't have a Shallan without darkness (AND NO PARENTS) or you risk going OOC. The PoV stays with Shallan throughout the whole story to reflect the journeys of self-awareness of period romances, and because using a Kaladin or Adolin PoV would take away much of the tension of the _"does he like me or not?"_ triangling. This is also not their journey, it is Shallan's. Much of the world-building is SA-canon details grafted onto a historical AU world, as cleanly as I could, to make sense in context. Some of it diverges from Alethkar, for example, AU House Kholin have been the royal family for longer than 2 generations. The social divisions and interactions between classes, and tech levels I have tried to keep mostly accurate to retain the flavour of the period. Though you might have noted, if you were paying attention, that steam engines (I call them "mechanicals") exist, but there are no mentions of trains or locomotives. Science is also more advanced in this setting than Earth's IRL1800-1815, since ether abuse was an 1840's phenomenon, and the references to biology and natural history mentioned by Shallan and Kaladin are closer to 1850's and 60's level. But hey, if canon-SA Kaladin can diagnose Renarin's epilepsy, then anachronistic tech trees are a natural consequence of the Almighty reloading a game save. I have also attempted to retain aspects of British country gentry culture, but some of it is more reflective of Victorian or Edwardian attitudes rather than the more period-appropriate Georgian. Where I make specific references to things past the 1830's, I try to point out the amusing anachronisms.  
  
The original illustrations were created on Photoshop, with some mixed media from hand drawn pencil sketches and layered textures. They were originally based on canon Shallan's Sketchbook pages, with stylistic inspiration from Ava's Demon, Lackadaisy, The Prince of Egypt, Transistor, Todd Allison, Leviathan, and Fate/Stay Night (original visual novel not the tv version). Several chapters I thought would read well as a graphic novel or visual novel. The character designs and painting style are my own. Canon Shallan's Sketchbook pages stay away from character portraits because Brandon Sanderson wanted readers to make up their own mental depictions of the characters, but since fanfiction and fanart are pure self-indulgence and made for my own entertainment and enjoyment, I disregarded the rules. SA-Shallan liked drawing portraits but her father said they were unsuitable for her rank. But he is dead in this story, and so such rules get to be relaxed.

The in-text illustrations are not only depictions of scenes occurring in the story, but also reflective of Shallan's state of mind, and her imagination. The stylistic choice of not drawing pupils you might think is kinda weird, but it is more supposed to be Shallan's interpretation of events happening around her than the creation of the omniscient narrator (me). The detailed notes at the end of each chapter are supposed to fill in the historical context of the story, because ideally the reader is expected to be aware of it, but Regency romances aren't everyone's choice of reading material - so I decided to explain in the footnotes in order to keep the story moving. Disclaimer - I did take artistic licence, but I justify it by handwaving and saying that this is an alternate universe of both Earth history and Roshar.

And yes, the choice of setting and many other details are purely author appeal, because I wrote this with the intention of creating a story that I personally would enjoy reading, and re-reading. Because that's the beauty of fanfiction, you write for pure self-indulgence and fan wankery, or else why bother?  
  
Just in case you wondered, the hardest part for me to write was the carriage scene where Shallan drifts on ether for the first time early on in the story. That was the place where the tone changed from romcom to dark, and I agonised over it to get it right, while still making Shallan and her family sympathetic rather than creepy psychos. The other scenes that were hard to write were Adolin's confession of love, and Kaladin's kiss and rejection, because they were extremely emotional and that is harder to do right than action scenes where you can just explain what characters did, rather than what they think and feel. Everything else was easier, yes, even Adolin's confession of cowardice and Lin Davar's death.  
  
The passages I liked writing the most were the times where Kaladin put ether on Shallan's wound and it was extremely painful for her. It's too simple to write "it hurt", and I wanted readers to cringe when you read it for the first time. So the lines _"a single torrent of nameless, searing agony that swept away thought and reason until there was no sense at all, and only the sensation of pain remained"_ and _"it stunned her insensate mind with more awareness than any abruptly thrown open curtains on any number of mornings. And all of that awareness was attuned to experiencing pure agony."_ Yeah, Shallan's focus on the pain (and also the descriptions of the food at every meal) is supposed to reflect her personal history and character.  
  
Some lines I like the most out of the whole thing were: _"his wounded chest gasped in spurts of red"_ , _"they could sing, and they sang to one another, and they sang to Shallan_ ", _"Loch Davar, admittedly, did not have much that could be praised or even expected in a roof"_ , _"It was a different peace for a different sort of brokenness, but the journey was always the same painful struggle."_  
  
Writing Kaladin's rejection was kind of painful to me, it hit home pretty hard. Even worse that I built up his attraction to her that readers could easily pick up on it, but Shallan was completely oblivious to it to the point where it was probably frustrating. But this isn't an OT3 story, so it had to happen - and I had foreshadowed from the beginning how similar they were, and how Shallan doesn't like that - _"I imagine that if I were forced to spend my days with someone identical to myself, I would tear my hair out in frustration."_ There was a whole lot of foreshadowing in the story, if you feel like going back to seeing for yourself. And lots of throwback lines to previous scenes - there are plenty of lines of dialogue which is an ironic echo of something said earlier. If there were any lines that you would like a clarification on, I would be happy to explain it, if I missed it in the footnotes. Things that make sense to me may not have been clear enough to you, and there are some things I wrote to be deliberately ambiguous and didn't mention in the notes, because I enjoy the delicious irony that comes from Kaladin and the readers knowing something that Shallan doesn't, and she assumes it to mean something else.

One thing that bothers me about period romances and dramas written in the modern day, either in formal published works or other setting-swapped AU fanfictions, is the inconsistency in writing styles that switches back and forth between contemporary and antiquated prose. I have made an active effort to keep the tone and style consistent throughout the whole story, and avoided anachronisms where possible. In places where they couldn't be avoided, I tried to minimise my modern "voice". So you will not see "ok"/"okay" in this story; "tonight" and "tomorrow" are written as "to-night"/"to-morrow", and "hello" is written as "hallo", because "hello" wasn't popularly used until the 1860's - previously it was always "hollo", "hullo", or "hallo". There was care and research put into this story, but the places where I avoided complete period authenticity, such as in parts of the dialogue, were done for a reason. I find period-formality can be too stilted in conveying emotion, at least in readers' eyes. So it's slightly modernised and less formal than would be appropriate for nobles.

There are some spellings that may look weird to you, but they are just antiquated versions - if I do it more than once in-text, it is probably on purpose. I also made a point of using British English throughout the text, if you have noticed that I spell "Honor" as "Honour", and use "licence" and "woollen" instead of "license" and "woolen", as these are either twentieth century spellings, or Americanisms. The languages used in this story in order of their appearance, other than English - if you couldn't tell by looking - are French, German, Polish, and Dutch. I deliberately chose not to name the Continental countries within the story because this was a point in history both in this AU and IRL where they weren't actually countries or nation-states in the modern sense, but mostly independent or loosely confederated states governed by ruling families.  
  
Thanks for reading, hopefully it was interesting to you the whole way through. I am aware most AU fics are hit or miss, and mostly miss. I had a surprising amount of fun writing this story, since I haven't written prose in years and it was interesting to discover how lots of reading other people's prose managed to rub off onto me. I have gone through looking for and fixing errors in spelling, grammar, punctuation and missing words. Nothing breaks immersion quite like errors in spelling or wayward punctuation, so I have gone through and fixed everything that I noticed was off, and ensured that the spellings I use are consistently British. If you notice any errors, such as an extra word where it doesn't make sense in a sentence, or a missing word, please drop a comment and I will fix it.

If you have any questions about the character or setting details in this story, feel free to ask. I would also welcome any feedback, critiques or reviews of the story, because it's pretty much a novel and if you managed to plough your way through all of it, I'd be curious to know why you thought it was worth your time.

Big thanks to Brandon Sanderson for creating these characters and the wonderful world of Roshar, and to all the readers here and on the 17th Shard, where the seeds of the concept and first chapters of this story were first posted.


End file.
